Completely overexcited at the line up, E and I could barely contain ourselves as we watched Rafa warm up on the outside courts. ‘E, E, check out Rafa’s warm up top’.  White, long sleeved and baby soft finest supima cotton (I guessed) with the words:  ‘TENNIS’ above the inevitable tick.

We were already having fun and play hadn’t even started yet.

‘£3 for a bottle of water?!’ I said to the sweet guy serving at the coffee bar.  ‘Um, yeah, I’m afraid so’ ‘What – how much for the brownie – like £30?’ E and I were in hysterics at this point as we proceeded to guess the price of everything on the menu.  We settled for a couple of coffees and thought about how much our champagne break might set us back later in the day.  ‘I guess you may have to re-mortgage for the Veuve, E’ I said.

Play commenced and we were treated to a sublime set of matches.  By the time Rafa came on in his trademark neon gear, I was fully focused on the attire of the players, or more specifically, the pants.

Extraordinary scenes ensued of both Rafa and our favourite Scot, wrestling with their knickers.  Who’d have thought it could be so hard to find a pair that fitted properly?  Rafa’s opponent didn’t appear to be wearing any! What was this about, I wondered. And, was the amount of knicker action directly in proportion to the magnitude of the star?

Late in the evening, E and I complimented the umpire on stopping the match as darkness fell ‘Well, sometimes you have to, although the guy who’s on a winning streak always wants to carry on’ he said.  Flashbulbs popped, and suddenly there he was.  The man who started the day for us, was ending it: Rafa.  As he graciously signed autographs, I looked at him and thought magnitude, pants – I think we know who wears them.