THERE is a corner of our loungeroom couch, possibly with a few biscuit crumbs unintentionally poked down the crevice at the side, which is my domain.
Nobody sits there, not even visitors, after Wanda will be kind enough to warn them away from “the cranky old bastard’s” chair.
It’s a spot in our house that gets lots of wear during Winter, and for good reason.
Because in Europe, as we’re experiencing mild temperatures during the nights of our cooler months, they’ll be experiencing their poor excuse of a Summer.
That’s when they express themselves, exposing the glare of skin which has sat for eight months under woolen jumpers and cloudy skies.
It’s also when they beam sport to my television, allowing me to express myself dressed in long johns and a blanket while I wave my imaginary parochial flag.
As regular readers of this column will be aware, I’m taken by the gladiatorial nature of tennis, a sport where skill and attrition combine to define a victor. They enter the court not knowing whether they’ll be in battle one or five hours, yet they must be prepared for a narrative even they couldn’t pre-write.
I’m also taken by what Europeans and tourists like to call “history” – seen best during stretches of the Tour de France. Ruins and castles a reminder of generations of wars, tyrants and border protection we’ve rarely witnessed in our own fine country.
Sure, there are green farms etched with messages of love and affection for their fellow man.
But take the cameras closer towards the people, and you’ll see them continuing to shiver through long days of temperate sunlight, reaching for wallets of currency that characterise vast variants in economies and cultures within borders that stretch no further than an Australian weekend getaway.
You’ll see hundreds of years of arguments, gaps in welfare that make Medicare look like a doctor’s day off. You’ll see picnic lunches that make barbecues look like a 5-star buffet.
I’ll then turn over to the cricket. Pasty British folk singing to keep themselves warm while the Australians teach them how to play a game they themselves invented.
We’ll claim rights to a 4.1-inch tall trophy, small reward compared to the country they thought was best suited for thieves of bread.
We called ourselves “the lucky country” but we’ve stopped that now because we’d prefer it to be our little secret. Had they only known how good things would become, maybe more people would have been stealing bread.
Yet, here I sit and sleep, soon to be in front of Wimbledon, recalling Pat Cash climbing the stands like a happy sheep dog.
All from that corner of my couch. In a small part of my home. In a country everyone envies.
I’ll wake, as I often do, in the wee hours of the morning, first for a wee, then to rise for the day ahead.
Because I’m getting old, I can’t sleep beyond 5am, which means the bags under my eyes will accentuate the wrinkles people of my ilk like to call lines of life.
I’ll yawn in my robe as I continue a routine which Wanda and I continue to share. A cup of tea and a piece of toast smeared with our favourite condiment.
How do you do it, I hear you ask? You’re a demon of a man, Wayne, I hear you say.
Able to remain awake all night thinking of our nation’s beauty as you smear your global cousins with disdain only deserving to them due to lifestyle choices of their forefathers.
Then, able to enjoy the joys of your homeland during the day. You don’t tire, Wayne, you vivacious, effervescent beast.
Today, I share my secret. I’m only as old as I feel. And I power nap.
I’ll nod off between overs in the cricket, between games in the tennis, and during the ads in the Tour de France.
Granted, it’s not a perfect science. I’ll doze off during the first set of a tennis match and wake up in the third. I’ll take my 40 winks soon before lunch at Lords, only to find that when I awake they’re at tea.
Never mind, it’s my moment of bliss and that’s all that matters.
Hey Wanda, good morning. What happened overnight in sport? Um, English Breakfast tea sounds lovely, thank you.
