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Having figured out London’s public transport system I proceeded to use the knowledge for evil, i.e. shopping. While I was in a dressing room Charice’s single Pyramid came on and I had what may only be described as a burst of national pride. And I speak as one who would excise the words “world-class” and “multi-awarded” from every text. I wanted to run to the store’s paging system and announce, “She’s Filipino!”

My friend reports that there is actually a campaign to Not have Charice on the TV musical Glee because she does not have an American accent and is not pretty enough, ergo not a proper “representative” of the Filipino. I hadn’t realized the Philippines was in Scandinavia. (Or Brazil, depending on skin tone.) Excuse me, perky blue-eyed blondes with chiseled features, straight noses and long legs, most Filipinos look like Charice. Perhaps when you are president you can make us wear paper bags on our heads, but for now we are perfectly happy to have someone short, brown, and flat-nosed (pango) out there on the world stage, making the competition sound like they have laryngitis.

Denouncing Charice for her looks (or “breeding”) is like knocking down Manny Pacquiao for his English pronunciation: It’s beside the point. No one questions the importance of appearances in this image-conscious era, but talent still overrides all other considerations.

Then again the talentless are always resentful.

As soon as I get organized.

Now that’s a boat.

Shouldn’t have taken so many photos because now I have too many to choose from, but the Olympus Pen makes me feel like a photographer.

I was wondering why The Old Guys (because they are literally old and guys) weren’t taunting me about the Wimbledon results, and then I saw the World Cup scores.

Diego Maradona can’t watch as his Argentina side are ripped apart by Germany. Photograph: Darren Staples/Reuters

Ay caramba, Argentina is out of the World Cup! Not just out, but thoroughly thrashed and humiliated by Germany, 4-0. Oh, the ignominy! And right after Holland booted Brazil out 2-1 to cancel their dream final. I expect The Old Guys are pickling their livers right now. I feel for you ancients, but if you want a Latin American final there’s still Paraguay and Uruguay.

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Ayayay no more Paraguay, but Spain is. . .Spanish-speaking.

Remember: Rafa is the Terminator. You kill him again and again and he still comes back to flatten you. You think you’ve won the point, then you find you have to hit another shot, and another. This is his greatest weapon, greater than the Forehand of Death: the ability to exhaust his opponents. But he is not invulnerable. The knees. Now win something.

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Gaaaah, Andy Murray is Terminated, 6-4, 7-6, 6-4. His best chance to bag Wimbledon, but it didn’t happen. In the final on Sunday Rafael Nadal meets Tomas Berdych, who flattened Novak Djokovic, 6-3, 7-6, 6-3.

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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.