Songs of the not-so innocent

To the world, yesterday may have been one of the best sporting days ever. Personally, it was one of the saddest. Willing Roger Federer on during matches is no longer about me being a fan of his tennis skills or amiable personality, both of which he seems to still possess in spades. No, the experience of Fed has become a selfish, bizarre quest for validation. Meandering aimlessly rather than marching purposefully through my mid-30s, it's 'oh-so-sweet' to see a man in my age bracket - Fed turns 38 soon - continue to kick ass across various surfaces, ruthlessly dispatching a stream of younger, fitter but clearly not better players, to the locker room, chastised. Fed winning is a victory twice over. Firstly, served with a healthy dollop of Schadenfreude on the side as he rules the roost over young whippersnappers. And secondly, an "I'll have what s/he's having" a la When Harry met Sally while Fed quietens the mob that's constantly going on about getti

I've never believed in that nonsense about the universe conspiring to make good things happen to/for me. Say that it's probably cooking up ghastly stuff against me and I'll wholeheartedly subscribe to that idea. Maybe I was wrong. I was inveigled into an early morning work meeting today. Trouble was that I was out of town over the weekend. However, I manfully attempted to make it for this jolly coven by taking a 6 am bus back into the city. Around 8:30 am, the bus shudders to a halt on the highway. Some convoluted mechanical issue meant that we'd have to be shipped off in other buses, depending on how many seats were available. In these situations, I can't help but admire the combative nature of old biddies and geezers. One minute, they'll be ensconced in their seats with the fixed resignation of old vegetables in the back of the fridge. The next, they'll be hotfooting it for spare buses like Spartans at the Battle of Thermopylae. I waited by the side