So, Henman's through to the next round. Not a hope he'll make it, but the country's in a fit all the same. Wimbledon hasn't been won by a Brit since 1950s.



I'm in a fit. But it's a combination of stress, anxiety, loneliness, boredom, inactivity, indecision. Sick of where I am, where I am not, sick of being sick of myself. Where I am, where I am not. Who I was. Who I wasn't. Where I am not. I thought here would make me interesting. It didn't. Not really. Where I am. And it made me here, not there, where people who weren't sick of me were. Are? No were. Were they? Possibly. I was. Never back to before, but maybe back to how it was. Or rather, how it should have been. Or rather still, how I'd like to think it was. Where I am not. I had a dream last night. So perfectly lovely, but so perfectly implausible that I woke up hugging my pillow, feeling warm and glowy until I realise where I was. No, really, where someone else wasn't. Where there is never someone else.



It's an enormous fucking bed for one person.



Where I am. And smack in the middle of, but not really anywhere near, where I thought I was heading. Or want to head. Or no, really where I want to head but won't let myself go. To that place and time where I can say I'm finally here. Or, better, we're here. We. I don't think in the plural, except when I'm talking about them. The things they do. The things they say. Or don't. Wherever they are. Clearly where they're not. I have no we. It's only I that am here.



You can italicise what you want in that. Whether you're you or them. Because you probably never thought you'd be alone at 35. And if you did, you certainly never said it to yourself. Never admitted it. Never made yourself reflect on the reality of it. Never thought your pillow was going to be a big fucking source of affection. Not in any smutty sort of way, but just in that you need to hold on to something at the end of the day when you know there are only more races to face tomorrow.