Dear John-the-Beatle

On Wednesday afternoon, John-the-Beatle, you texted me this: "I'm at the tennis it's awesome. If you want I can get you in for free." Oh, how you toy with my affections, young man. My response was OF COURSE I want to go to the tennis, FOR FREE. We all know how much I love me some tennis. And free (!) tennis, that just woos my unemployed heart.

On Thursday morning, Inspector Climate texted me and was all "you know who you'll see today? Fernando Verdasco." I am pretty sure it's clear from my Hot Hair Scale how much I adore, Fernando. (There is something in the air that night...the stars are bright, Fernando. Still no one wants to sing a long?). So at 9 am (the appointed time, if you recall, John-the-Beatle), I texted you to see when we were meeting. At 10, you texted me back and you know what you said. You said you weren't able to get me a ticket...You tease! How dare you taunt me with this (two of my favourite things: Penguins and Hot Tennis Players. The agony! - ok so fine, I probably wouldn't have seen Fernando canoodling with a penguin...but I would have seen that hot head of hair and irresistible smile):



I turned the tennis on tv yesterday afternoon, the tennis I should have been there to watch, only to see that man with the hottest hair, possibly ever, whopping this guy:



Who happens to be one of my least favourite players on the tour (and who has a truly terrible haircut). AND I MISSED IT.

Frankly, it's amazing we're still friends, John-the-Beatle. I am not sure I can ever recover from this kind of disappointment.

Oh Fernando...I heard the drums.

Your distraught friend,

D