AS a teenager I could name virtually every player taking part in Wimbledon.

I could spell all their names and knew their world rankings.

Back then I was obsessed with tennis and spent every spare moment on the local courts. I even went to Wimbledon, though sadly not as a player.

I managed to get tickets for the centre court finals, where, in 1983, Martina Navratilova played Andrea Jaeger, and John McEnroe played in the men’s doubles.

My boyfriend and I squashed together in the tennis equivalent of football terraces, and stood through both matches, plus half the mixed doubles.

By the end my legs probably ached more than McEnroe’s.

It was great to be there, seeing it at close quarters, but I wouldn’t do it again – at least not without a seat.

I had to stand on tip-toe to see over people’s heads – including some who had selfishly brought boxes to give them a giraffe’s-eye view.

I would occasionally see sprays of sweat and hear McEnroe cursing, but If I wanted to see their any lower than their torsos I’d have needed stilts.

It was disappointing in other ways, too, with the atmosphere more like a holiday camp with people standing around eating not strawberries and cream, but burgers, and supping not chilled champagne, but lager.

It was as genteel as Blackpool sea front on a bank holiday.

There were strawberries, served five at a time in tiny plastic bowls for which you paid a premium. I remember feeling a bit let down.

I gave up watching Wimbledon on TV a long time ago. My husband is allergic to sport, even on the TV and would make annoying comments throughout.

But this year I’ve resumed. Being part-time at work, it dawned on me that I can watch during the day (as I’m ironing, of course, I can’t have my husband thinking I’m sitting idle) in peace.

The most notable changes since I last sat through an afternoon of top flight tennis are the muscles — there’s a fine line between the women and the men, and the noise.

Back in the 1980s it was mainly expletives from one or two players, now players can’t serve without guttural yelps. And there’s more grunting on court than in a pig sty.

It’s also spurred me on to play more tennis. And I have started to play regularly, joining a group of adults in our village every week.

It took a lot of courage to go along, but I did, and I love it.

It’s like old times, only I won’t wear a tennis skirt. I’d need Dutch courage — and a lot of it — to expose my legs.