WIMBLEDON – Britain doesn’t have poison ivy, yet another weird factoid about the place. I should have brought over a sprig or two, planted it at the All-England Club, just so the locals could run scared. An ivy terrorist.
Whenever I mention poison ivy around here, people start fretting. It’s like with rabies. Britain is paralyzed with fear over that disease, because it doesn’t exist here. If the Brits spotted an American raccoon, there would be panic in the streets.
As a teenager, I worked at the Rutgers experimental farm where a gruff boss dragged me and another college kid into the ivy-strewn rhododendron patch and told us to start weeding. My coworker ended up in the hospital with a terrible rash all over his body. I was immune, like Superman.
I just spelled rhododendron right, without spell check. Talk about Superman.
The house in Islington is being painted by extremely polite Polish workers who bow when anyone enters the property. Except that Doula noticed they broke with etiquette when one of her more attractive patients arrived. Eyes were not turned down.
They’ve brought with them one of those signs that advertises their company. It is a gigantic placard, making it appear we are the headquarters for Alan Lancaster Ltd.
Colin is worried the workers will find some rot in the walls and suggest purchases an expensive resin. “I just want them to slap some paint on and be done with it,” he said. “I’ll be dead when this whole thing falls down.”
Maria Sharapova’s people are littering the members’ area with packets of Sugarpova candy. A basket of bonbons is passed around the Royal Box, and the Duchess of Cornwall was caught on camera chewing in rather un-aristocratic fashion. Forget Venus and Serena. Venus and Jupiter are brightening the night sky, playing doubles.
