1982 - part 2

Watching Wimbledon this year has been a frustrating experience at times due to the relentless rain, but it's the final Saturday, the sun's shining and it looks like it'll all be done and dusted on time. Growing up with a sport-loving father, I remember it was always on - one of those events, along with Test match cricket, football, late-night boxing and the Grand National that are part of the fabric of my life.
There's been lots of talk about the previous 'worst Wimbledon ever', in 1982, so, once again, my thoughts have been drifting back to that year - the Falklands campaign and my father's death as the conflict ended. I was reminded that the rain during that month was indeed torrential and never-ending. As I was up to my neck in small children at that time my memories are very fragmented, just a series of vivid images. My father had an allotment; as it was summer everything was coming up so I needed go down there and pick everything. More often than not, I did it in pouring rain. It's one of those memories that becomes etched on your brain - grief, rain, vegetables and fruit, and Wimbledon, all jumbled up together, and so intense it seems like yesterday.