Wimbledon and Long-Johns

Whenever I think of thermal underwear, or long-johns if you will.  Actually where does long-johns originate from?  Sorry, little distraction there.  As I was saying, whenever I think of these very-unattractive garments I always think of my grandad.  Not because he would dash around the house in them that is.  Nope, nothing as bizarre as that, but rather because his long-johns were frequently on the washing line, the long white legs flapping like demented limbs trying to escape.

I swore I would never, ever wear thermal underwear.  I mean really, what kind of message would that be sending about me?  Would I not be classing myself as old, frumpy, passionless, or even Bridget-Jones at 85?  So why on earth was I purchasing some thermals on Sunday morning?  For crying in a bucket, I live in Africa.  Isn’t it supposed to be warm here, all day, every day, all year round?  Did somebody transport me to another universe where the seasons are up the pole and not inform me?  Bloody hell, I can’t half winge about the weather.  Sorry!

Anyway, holy, cold, moly, I have to confess, those thermals were on my legs faster than you could say, “what the hell have you bought!?”  They were so warm and snuggly I had a smile on my face for the rest of the day.  Which was just as well because if you have’nt heard already,  Andy Murray did not win Wimbledon. I repeat, DID NOT win Wimbledon.  I don’t know about you, but I’m betting there’s been a surge of black-sporrons purchaseed in the last 12 hours.

It was a tough match to watch, especially as Wodger is for sure my all time favourite.  I had an uneasy feeling in my gut, and no it wasn’t indigestion, knowing I had shifted my allegieance slightly, but only for that game, to Andy-yes-I-do-cry Murray.  Shame I really wanted AM to win.  Not because he is the better player, or that he desreved it, but more to stop the British public dumping all that pressure on him, year after year after year.   Poor guy.  Just think next year it will be even more intense.   I mean, I’ve already started saying “oh well, next year will be his year.”

All together now,

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.

COME ON ANDY, YOU CAN DO IT.