HOW has Wimbledon been for you? Apart from the rain. And the price of strawberries. Funny how seasonal fruits, like petrol, seem to vary so markedly in price across the UK.

I am told by a pal who made his annual pilgrimage to the spiritual home of lawn tennis that he had to take out a second mortgage to keep him and his Mrs in the ritual strawberries and cream which, along with cloudbursts, women built like rugby players and Henman devotees draped in nationalistic gear, are pretty much de rigeur for West London during Wimbledon fortnight.

We didn't bother dressing up at our house (flat, actually) but we certainly feasted well on delicious strawberries and cream tarts, very reasonably-priced from our splendid local confectioners. They'd go down a bomb in Wimbledon, the bakers and their strawberry and cream tarts.

The thing I find most noticeable about the tournament is the lamentable absence of anyone sporting the initials GB who might one day be good enough to mix it with the Williams sisters.

That nice Mr Henman, the quintessential Brit, who year on year carries the hopes and dreams of zillions of his countryfolk, does reasonably well against various male bullies from Europe, America and the Antipodes, but I suspect he would be eaten alive if ever he appeared in the same ring as Serena and Venus, the very antitheses of how some of us, who grew up with Virginia Wade, expect lady tennis players to look and play. I walked into our lounge as Ms S Williams and Jennifer Capriati were waging war on the Centre Court. The grunts and thwacks emanating from the TV screen had me believing for one insane moment that some BBC employee, disciplined for taking too long a tea break, had exacted a terrible revenge by substituting a porn film featuring sado-masochism, for the tennis coverage.

The only difference was the thwacks and grunts came simultaneously, whereas in blue movies there is a second or so time lag, I am led to believe. When I mentioned this phenomenon my wife, an armchair critic of some standing, told me that Mark Philippoussis and Andre Agassi were way ahead in the noise stakes. Their fourth round scrap went off the "gruntoscale", topping Serena and Jennifer by several decibels.

I could never imagine Mr Henman grunting at any time, on court or off. He sometimes clenches his fist in silent salutation of a point won but rarely seems to acknowledge the upper-class English shrieks of "Come On Tim" from his loyal fans.

It must be a hell of a burden, saddled with all that adoration and expectation. I doubt he was ever prepared for it, physically or mentally.

Serena and Venus have been street fighters from their early days, and winners over every kind of opposition along the way, including class and discrimination. Pity our Tim didn't get the same kind of commando training. He might have given the Henman Hill something worth cheering.