There I was, at 6am, sitting in a park with a thousand other like minded fools...

There I was, at 6am, sitting in a park with a thousand other like minded fools, surrounded by rubbish and games (which, incidentally, children weren't allowed to play on due to the alcohol sponsorship plastered across them all...).

We were in the queue; it was time for Wimbledon. It was meant to be raining and we were all burning instead, even though the sun had barely raised its head. I'm guessing I hadn't read the latest forecast, as most of the crowd seemed dressed for the beach - although, they could have been taking into account that the less clothes you wear, the quicker you dry off. Who knows?

It's a strange annual ritual that sees a migration of tennis lovers from all nations on the hunt for strawberries and cream and PIMM's, yet willing to sit in a park for hours on end, minus any tennis (not even a big screen showing highlights), for the pleasure – and that’s if you get in. We did, in the end. We had wondered at times whether we might suffer the ignominy of being the first people to be told, sorry there's no more room at the inn. You still have to pay but I think it's one of those experiences you should at least have tried once.

Inside, flitting between courts, 'Murray Mound' and looking on enviously at the members’ enclosures, high above offering panoramic views of us ant like spectators jostling for position, we had incredible day. The tennis was great; the sun was hot - very hot. We left, well done.

Have you been? Have you heard that Andy Murray has moved to Oxshott? Have you seen him down at the local convenience store yet? Would you queue or rather watch it all on TV?!