Liz's Diary

On Friday we had a notice that the electricity would be cut off between 9 am and 4 pm so, not knowing how to spend a day indoors without computer access any more, I went out. Having completed my to-do list in Croydon before lunch, I decided on a whim to pay what might be my last visit to Wimbledon for a few years.

I arrived at Wimbledon station by tram and joined a huge milling crowd. Told there would be a 20 minute wait for either bus or shared taxi, I took a proffered map and walked to the All England Club in 15 minutes.

I was surprised not to see the queue snaking along the leafy and prosperous suburban streets as it had last time I went. I began to congratulate myself that my theory of a non Andy Murray day linked to a forecast of rain showers had kept the hoards away. My smugness was short lived. They have just moved the queue away from the prosperous but querulous locals into the local park, where I found myself in the third long lane of what was to become a 5 lane queue. "You will definitely see tennis today," was the good news. The bad news was "But not before 5 o'clock." It was then just after 12 noon...

I had to be satisfied with my secondary successes, in at least having provided myself with a rain jacket (for sitting on the grass) and a good book and a magazine just in case. Even more satisfying was that the weather forecast was wrong and the sun continued to shine warmly.

I was just behind a couple of friendly women down from York for the day. They told me they were usually lucky with tickets in the ballot, but had decided to come anyway rather than miss the experience. We chatted amicably as the day passed. Behind me a couple of American men, probably a father and son, kept themselves to themselves, and gave up and went off after a couple of hours, enabling me to chat to another woman on her own, who had hoped to support a young man of her acquaintance. She'd watched him defeated in the singles the previous day (by means of a friends' pass) but hoped he might fare better in the doubles.

I finished my book (the excellent "The Road Home" by Rose Tremain - about the experience of Lev, a Polish immigrant) between chatting with my neighbours, eating a bacon and egg bap from the burger stall, and watching the antics of a group of American kids in the next lane who were amusing themselves with circle games (anyone heard of "Big Booty"?). I also finished my magazine (a family history one - quite interesting).

A flurry of excitement around 4 o'clock when we realised that the second line of the queue was now "The Queue" as the first line had gone and was being replaced by campers who were in tomorrow's queue! As the tail of line two approached our view, we would soon be joining on and in motion!! Quick trips to the loo to prepare ourselves for the new adventure and we were ready.

Our excitement soon abated as we realised that although up and moving, our pace was as a snail's and we were still not even approaching the park entrance. The bonuses were that the closer formation had included an Australian brother and sister and a pleasant lone man in our conversational orbit, and that we shuffled past three refreshment stands, giving the opportunity to purchase a light tea (actually coffee and cake) en route.

By 5 o'clock, we had just emerged from our field and were on the plastic path towards the security area. Things definitely started to move faster for a while. We passed the HSBC stand advertising the vote for Champion of Champions at a brisk pace. Not before I'd decided where my vote would go - Rod Laver and Martina Navratilova. Martina was a shoe-in. It was harder to choose amongst the men. Pete Sampras was an obvious contender (but I could never get over the fact that his facial expression made him look stupid - which he patently isn't, but there you go...) and my current favourite Roger Federer; but I plumped for Rod Laver, who helped to introduce the Open Era and was pretty invincible when I was first watching tennis.

The line slowed again and we started to despair. The lone woman learned her friend's match was over (another defeat, sadly). The ladies from York knew they'd have to leave to get their train at 8, so as the time ticked ever onwards to 6 o'clock, they were in a terrible dilemma, but unable to give up on their investment of nearly 6 hours already.

Then suddenly towards 6.30 there was another surge of movement! We were through the security post before we knew it and hurrying over the bridge towards the pay kiosks. Hurray! I was in. Where to go? What to do first?

After shuffling along for over two hours, I needed a sit down, so when I saw seats beside an empty court 6, with umpire and staff waiting for players to arrive, I sat down regardless.

I was rewarded, when I saw that I was to watch a British mixed doubles pair play! Elena Baltacha and James Aukland, playing Kateryna Bonderenko and Travis Parrott. Names I've heard of! I was surprised to see the men looked quite short for tennis players - then realised it was the equally tall women players that gave the wrong impression, as they were all approaching 6ft or more.

It was lovely to watch a live match from a courtside position, within earshot of what they were saying ("Go out, go out, go out!" at one point, as she raced belatedly for a ball that happily did as it was told). In a good match that warmed up as it went along, the British pair came out victorious in straight sets.

Ready for another stroll, I went to Court 3 and stood behind the front row seats in front of the grandstand to watch as No 1 seeds and 2007 champions Liezel Huber and Cara Black trounced the game but outclassed Klaudia Jans and Alicja Rosolska of Poland, also in straight sets. Huber in particular was very imressive - so powerful and quick.

I finished my day's viewing by watching the last set of a match that I'd noticed going on for some time in my peripheral vision. Another mixed doubles (or Gentlemen's Handicap Competition, as some have cruelly called it)between two couples previously unknown to me Jeff Coetzee and Jill Craybas versus Jean-Julien Rojer (with his luxuriant curls confined under a bandana) and the very elegant Galina Voskoboeva. The score was 7 games all in the final set.

I soon got behind the cheerful but determined latter couple, who bantered with the crowd between points and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the experience. They finally triumphed to hearty applause with a score of 15 games to 13! By then it was 9.15 pm, so I'd managed to see nearly 3 hours play after all.

Deciding against going to see what was happening on the big screen, instead I had a look round the shop and bought birthday presents for my nieces, before walking back to the station, still in the warm sun.

PS. Yesterday, in the tradition of being inspired to pick up a raquet after watching Winmbledon, I went for a knock up with Emi and her son Ethan, aged 11. Ethan took on the two of us and would have won had we actually been scoring, but it was good to have a go again - shades of the Ladies Patball Championship in Cairo 10 years ago!

This was the tree outside my house in the snow on 3rd February.

Here it is again on 1st June photographed at 8.45pm!

We went diving again on Friday, to a new location - the Mussendam peninsular, in Fujeira. We went by Dhow from Dibba. This is the other one that went with us.

Ed on deck, trying to figure out how to work the dive computer. He got it sorted in the end.

Rodica, who went with us to snorkel, even though she can barely swim! She had a good day anyway.

Sorting out the rented dive kit at the end of the day.

View of the mountains with BCD's drying in the afternoon sun.

Coming back into Dibba harbour at the end of the day.

Dibba dhow wharf.

Sun setting over the mountains and water.

The first time I saw one of these signs, I was convinced the translation was wrong, and looked for a red light. Then I realised the sign was accurate - they signal a dry wadi bed crossing the road, which can become flooded after rain. There are red and white poles at the side of the road, similar to the snow markers in Britain. When the water covers the white and only red is visible, it's too deep to cross.

P.S. Having completed a deep dive (over 25 metres) and a multi-level dive I am now an advanced open water diver, with 14 dives under my belt!

We went to see Gasping, by Ben Elton, last night. It was presented by the amateur Dubai Drama Group at the Dubai Community Theatre and Arts Centre in the Mall of the Emirates.

I was unfamiliar with the play - an amusing but hard biting satire on corporate greed and the global detriment it ultimately causes - but thoroughly enjoyed it. It's a four hander: the cynical business magnate; his two rival ambitious and fawning minions, one of whom eventually sees the error of his ways, and the media manipulator sex siren, who comes to believe in her own hype. The parts were very well played by an international cast, who got a lot of laughs and got the point across well.

The story is about finding "the new pot noodle" - creating a completely new market and thus making money where none was to be had before, rather than shifting it between existing markets. The idea they come up with is "designer air" "other people's air really gets up your nose". Unfortunately it involves sucking up oxygen in order to purify it, and all too soon people are having to pay to breathe. Those who can't afford to buy their air, can only breathe the much depleted natural stuff, with most of its ogygen sucked out of it and are dying of asphyxiation....

Interestingly, possibly because this was an amateur production, the set was very old fashioned - not much play with lighting, but full flats and real furniture with lots of detailing in props, which all had to be changed between scenes by a large team of shifters. I thought this was all unnecessary - theatre goers are used to sparser indications of setting nowadays - and to my mind it held up the action too much, especially in the second half when the scenes were shorter. It sometimes seemed the changes were longer than the scene and very distracting.

However, overall a good way to spend an evening.

Every weekday, I get in my car, possibly saying hello to a neighbour leaving at the same time, and drive to work. I spend the days talking with colleagues and the children, then I drive home.

If I go out shopping, I normally go in the car and at the shopping centre go about my business as others do theirs.

But on Sunday mornings when I walk to buy my newspaper I always talk to at least one passing stranger on the way and sometimes it may be up to half a dozen. They are all doing the same thing as me, walking to the corner shop for a paper or breakfast supplies, or else walking to the station or bus stop, but in a more leisurely manner than during the week.

The conversations don't add up to much - usually greetings followed by remarks about the weather or the gardens and trees around us - but it's all very friendly.

Some people I see regularly, so they are the familiar strangers, whose faces I know but names not, that someone once theorised were the benchmark of feeling happy in a neighbourhood - ie not how many people you actually call a friend, but how many people you regularly smile and nod at.

I suppose to anyone living in a village, who knows all or most people, the ways of townsfolk seem unfriendly, but it's all down to two factors; the sheer press of people in the metropolis - you couldn't possibly acknowledge them all, so you ignore them instead - and the car, which speeds people out of the quieter local area where people do speak if they come face to face.

It's a shame. But at least, on Sundays I get to talk to strangers!