I CAME across this on the internet.

“So it started. My normally sensible wife retreated into her once a year two week hibernation. Conversation may be considered only if it includes the present state of play with whosoever is on the court at that time.

“I reckon we have been married for 43 years or so. Now 43 fortnights is 86 weeks, taken from 43 years leaves 41 years and 18 weeks.”

The writer was making the point that Wimbledon can shorten your marriage.

It is certainly compulsive viewing. I don’t get anything done throughout the fortnight – although my family would argue that I do next to nothing anyway.

The Wimbledon fortnight is the only time of year when I turn on the TV during the day. And the problem is, once it’s on, it’s on indefinitely. I can sit for hours, the only movement being my thumb occasionally clicking the red button to switch from one match to another.

Wimbledon eats away at my time, devouring every second, so I end up stepping over un-ironed laundry on my way to bed. I’ve tried ironing while watching but it doesn’t work – I can’t pay it close enough attention and might miss a crucial Federer backhand.

Like thousands of other people, I love the entire spectacle, and don’t know what to do with myself when it has ended.

It’s not all good, though. I love the tradition of the tournament, and this extends to the TV coverage. The new highlights show is beyond dreadful. Previously, former champions and other stars chatted to John Inverdale in from of the gorgeous Virginia creeper-clad backdrop of the All England Club. Afterwards, the camera would occasionally pan onto the fans below, and they would cheer.

John Inverdale has gone – which is no great loss – but has been replaced by Clare Balding (haven’t they got ANYBODY else?) leading the chat against a cheap-looking mock bar backdrop.

This format might work with Top Gear or Springwatch Unsprung, but this is Wimbledon, for heaven’s sake. For a second I thought I was watching Take Me Out The Gossip, and expected to see Mark Wright on a bar stool drinking Pimms with Anna Kournikova. It is so awful I can’t watch it.

Call me old fashioned, but no-one should tamper with Wimbledon.

I still miss Dan Maskell, who I once read – and believed – was ball boy for Henry VIII .