It’s 7.30am in Wimbledon Park, southwest London, and I’m standing in a 100-person queue for a coffee van, listening to the group of twenty-somethings behind me weigh up whether to trade their morning flat white for a Mr Whippy given the relative lack of demand for the nearby ice cream van.
You'd think I wouldn't be particularly bothered about queueing for coffee when the whole point of the day is queueing for tennis. A queue’s a queue, right?
