Making a racquet
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It has been a stalled summer in London. After a few days of blue in June, the skies have almost consistently been sullen grey and the rainfall far too ambitious for my liking. In the evening you cycle home past bars and restaurants that should be fringed with alfresco drinkers and diners but look more like furniture showrooms with their displays of empty chairs and tables. On Thursday, however, there was some sunshine and the city transformed in minutes. Streets suddenly thronged; the previous day’s raincoats and gilets were replaced by shorts and summer dresses. Do people carry around alternative outfits in their bags?
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On Wednesday night there was a party in east London for the launch of a handsome new cookbook produced by Spanish media house Apartamento for LVMH-owned luxury leisure group Belmond. The book is called Liguria: Recipes & Wanderings Along the Italian Riviera and is mostly filled with recipes from the company’s hotels in Portofino. It’s interesting that the brand chose Café Cecilia in the heart of hipster Hackney for the launch and also that it’s stretching into more book publishing. We’ll have to keep an eye on it. Anyway, it didn’t rain too much that night, so the crowd spread onto the pavement. The only threat to proceedings? Somehow, England was still in the Euros and playing the Dutch. Who would stay and who would leave the party? I wonder how many organisers with events scheduled for the night had been secretly hoping that England would have been knocked out by then. The negronis seemed to keep most people anchored, though there was a lot of furtive score-checking on phones.
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My day at Wimbledon on Tuesday was less dry but, in possession of tickets for the covered Centre and No 1 courts, I had little fear of those tempestuous skies. Indeed, under that glass-roofed canopy, it was rather toasty; definitely jackets-off time for many of the gents. It was, of course, sublime. It’s the intimacy of the set-up that strikes you, your closeness to the players, and the hush that descends as they do battle. We watched Carlos Alcaraz versus Tommy Paul on Court No 1 and you could hear them breathing, see their muscles tensing. The psychological strength that goes into playing at this level is extraordinary to witness. I who would struggle to whip up a salad with someone watching over my shoulder but these players are able to ignore all the stares and glares, the cheers and silences, to just do battle. This focus was something to think about as the car edged out of a rain-clogged car park, where several vehicles were marooned in the mud, wheels spinning. London needs an emergency roof.
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Collective moments are another theme to consider. I made it home on Wednesday in time to see the second half of the match. Yes, even I was watching. When Ollie Watkins scored the winning goal in the game’s 91st minute, you could hear the screams and cheers emanating from the houses and apartments that surround where I live. The next day colleagues had similar stories of car horns being blasted, of pubs erupting in celebration, of a city caught in a moment. Though I’d still like the sun to come out too.
