Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Anyone For Tennis?)

The Men's Final, Wimbledon.
Decisions, decisions.
Who should I support?
Federer? - Nice cardie, embroidered initials on the pocket.
Or Nadal? - Bit of a chav, sleeveless vest, white sellotape around his legs (?!), and Nike logos over absolutely everything; from sweat band to socks and probably pants but I have no proof - Mmm, Nice.
Two sets in I was firmly behind Federer. He was losing badly but looked no more perturbed than if he'd just discovered the battery had run out in his Cuckoo Clock - what a gent.
Nadal on the other hand, grunting like a pig in labour, muscles bulging out of his vest, with baggy nylon-looking shorts waggling about in the wind (is it me or are the girls' skirts getting shorter while the boys' shorts are getting longer?). No wonder he was sweating so much.
And not a flicker of a smile, not once. Just a permanent sneer - it wasn't nice and it certainly wasn't pleasant. Just very stressful. So stressful I couldn't bear to watch. So I went to do some ironing, and pondered, like you do, when engaged in some mindless, pointless, domestic activity.
And then it struck me. With horror I realised my allegiance was totally and utterly misplaced. If I had to choose between Switzerland or Spain, which would it be?
Or to put it another way,
Paella or Chocolate?
Definitely Paella (unless I was premenstrual, in which case I'd probably have both) - the juicy, succulent prawns, the squid, the tangy pimientos, some chicken, perhaps a little spicy chorizo, the glowing, yellow, saffron-infused rice. I just can't drool over chocolate in the same way, sorry Roger. It was at this point that I took a sneaky peek at the match, which by now had Roger fighting back heroically to win the third and then the fourth set, making me feel slightly less guilty for abandoning him. I also discovered that watching on widescreen upstairs made Nadal's muscles far more bulbous and his sneer far more evil than on the old box I was now watching downstairs - I think he was probably just really concentrating. Which was just as well.
And so jubilant was I when he did finally win, that I immediately went out and bought a Toblerone to celebrate - well they'd hardly be selling paella at the petrol station, would they?