JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

I know, I know, there’s no need to break the news to me, I’m actually here. I was so sure this would be Roger Federer’s Wimbledon number 7 and Grand Slam number 17 that I didn’t bother to watch the match.

In the morning I went to Highgate Cemetery (You have to say “HIGH Get SEMetree” or they won’t know what you mean), having finally figured out the public transport system,

and in the afternoon I went to the Victoria & Albert Museum, which has the best gift shop of all the museums I’ve seen in London.

At six I met up with Rian and casually asked for the Wimbledon news. I meant the Murray-Tsonga match, which has everyone on edge. He said, “You seriously don’t know?” Aaaaaargh!

It’s my fault, I’m clearly the jinx. First time I turn up at SW19 and Roger loses in the quarters. “We’re going to need some drinks,” I said, so we went to the Fifth Floor Bar and Restaurant at Harvey Nichols, where Edina and Patsy of AbFab liked to shop and behave badly.

“Could we still have the champagne afternoon tea even if it’s after six, please, we need it?” we asked the lovely waiter. “Why not,” he said.

So between the champagne, scones and clotted cream and cries of “Darling, it’s a Lacroix!” we agreed that we would root for Andy Murray at Wimbledon because I like England and they really, Really need to win something. Their Wimbledon drought has lasted longer than their football World Cup drought; their last men’s singles champion is now a shirt, that’s how long it’s been.

How can I be so flippant when the Fed has just crashed out of Wimbledon? Here’s my rationalization. Roger and I are in sort of the same boat (minus several million dollars, megawatts of fame and talent, and an actual boat). We’re content. Life is good. For now. The Fed’s having a terrible summer—he will be (gasp) number three after this loss—so he will have the old hunger pangs again, and I’ll be going home soon and and when I realize I’m broke, I’ll have the old hunger pangs again. So all will be well again, that is, unwell. Darling, it’s a Lacroix. And look, that extremely tall guy in the purple shirt looks like Casey Affleck, only hunky. I love London.