Just as we were about to resign ourselves to becoming nomads in Wimbledon Park – having left our queue tickets at the blanket, we were essentially undocumented – Beth waved us down. Just in time, as the steward, dressed in purple, had come over, telling us to pack our things and waddle our way to the front of the next line. This process repeated itself over the course of the early afternoon, and by 1pm we were striding towards the security checkpoint, having missed the Princess of Wales by a few hours.
As the man by the gate checked my bag – a blanket, unused; a water bottle, boiling; a copy of the new Ian McEwan, unread – I found myself reluctant for the queue to end. I waved goodbye to Colm and Sasha and Edgar and Lauren, till Beth and I were walking past the Lavazza coffee van before she set foot in tennis’ spiritual home for the first time in a 30-year-long love of the game.
I wrote down my email in her phone, Nadal staring back at me, and realised what a brilliant introduction to the country she had experienced. I had always considered it a little twee, like Paddington Bear or Giles Brandreth. Now, I saw it for what it was, the perfect ambassador for the best of Britain: eccentric, kind, a little boozy; 10,000 people waiting politely in an absolutely gigantic queue.
Maybe I could squeeze a too-convenient metaphor out of this experience, after all. Maybe the Wimbledon queue, like life, is all about the journey, not the destination. In fact, I thought as I swung my barely-needed tote back onto my shoulder, maybe I would be better off watching the tennis at the Dog & Fox, staying till closing, and doing the whole thing over again tomorrow morning. Satisfied, the security guard looked up and smiled: ‘Welcome to Wimbledon, enjoy your day.’ How was he to know how much I already had?