The Olympic flame passed by our house this morning and we went out to cheer it on. I resisted the temptation to run out shrieking, ‘It should have been me!’ and wrestle it away from the poor man carrying it. Mind you, we waited so long for all the sponsors’ buses to go by that I’d have lost the impetus by the time it eventually turned up, anyway.
Having missed out in the first couple of ballots, we eventually ended up with tickets for eventing (no, I don’t know, either, but horses are involved), fencing and archery. I don’t understand any of these sports, but then the only one I do understand is tennis, and we’ve already had Wimbledon. I feel I have to go, because it probably won’t come this way again in my lifetime (or if it does, I’ll be as old as my Dad, who was at the 1948 Olympics, but finds the prospect of travelling across London too daunting this time round). As I live in one of the Olympic boroughs, I’ve watched as my patch has gradually been taken over by the Games: the park has been closed for some time now, and temporary bridges erected over the roads in various places; parts of the Heath have been cordoned off and dug up, and a forest of new signs has sprouted from the pavements. We also have missile launchers dotted around, and a dirty great battleship stationed on the Thames, just in case an Al-Qaeda operative who’s a particular fan of Jerome K. Jerome decides that a Three Men in a Boat-style attack is the way to go. At least we can take comfort in the knowledge that, should a plane be hijacked by terrorists, it can safely be shot out of the sky, killing all on board and showering those below with flaming debris. I am looking forward to finding out what Danny Boyle really has in store for the opening ceremony, though.