I’m on a train, biatches.
What kind of train, you may ask?
Oh, the train that is taking me to ROLAND GARROS.
It’s not the same around here. I haven’t got my trusty Sandringham line taking me to Richmond station within eleven minutes, or the baby train that takes my lazy bum behind Hisense to come in the back way through Garden Square.
I don’t have my stack of Ticketek ground passes, printed from the Internet with bright blue logos and black barcodes and folded haphazardly.
I didn’t pack my tennis bag, full of water and sunscreen and food for the way.
I just arrived in the hostel, dumped my bags, asked for directions and hightailed it to the metro.
I’m inclined to consider the MasterCard ad right now.
Metro ticket – free, from a kind couple who gave us all day Paris transport passes at the airport.
Roland Garros tix – who the hell knows?
Sunscreen – I’m still using the free Ambre Solaire we received in our Garnier giftbags at AO09. Sadly, I’m not even kidding.
A beer – exorbitant, but expected.
Being at a different Grand Slam?
See you soon, Roland!