IT is 5.40pm.

The supermarket operative asks what roast chicken I want. She gently inquires: "The super tasty chicken option?"

"No," I reply. "I will have the bland one. An upbringing in 20th century Glasgow and its environs has stunted my self-esteem to such a level that I fear I am not worthy of super tasty. Give me that scrawny one and wrap it in a soiled newspaper. And spit on it."

It is 6.10pm. A shopping channel is advertising a ring for £73,400. Plus £4.95 post and packaging. I just opt for the post and packaging.

As one may surmise, dear reader, time is weighing on my hands. And very pleasant that is, too.

It is also peculiar. At this time of year I am normally as busy as the internet after Partick Thistle announce a new mascot.

This is tennis season. This was once my beat, in a discordant sort of be-bop riff way. The awful reality of sitting on a bucket seat in some dispiriting fitba, stadium in January could be mitigated by the dream of marching down Avenue Gordon Bennett (seriously) towards Roland Garros or trekking up to Wimbledon from Southfields station.

Wimbers starts play on Monday. The hacks are already in situ. For the embedded tennis press (they bring their own futons) Wimbledon basically starts the day after it ends. For the rest of us, the build-up gathers such a momentum that one briefly looks up from the last of the preview tsunami to discover play has actually started.

As we speak (well, as I write and as you glance down to see how much of this there is to go), they will be wheeling in players to the media interview room.

If words were coins, the Wimbledon previews would pay off the Greek debt.

Yet I not only played my part in clattering out this hymn to hype, I exulted in it.

The truth is Wimbers is magic. This is the verdict of someone who may be expected to rail against bastions of privilege or despoil the playgrounds of the super rich.

But Wimbledon rises above this image for reasons that are obvious and some that are not. It is superbly organised, has a distinctive brand and is played in a marvellous setting. But there is something else.

For the next two weeks, press men will sit at desk and at courtside largely unaware of the outside world. The rhythm of the day is dictated by orders of play, announcements of pending interviews, deskmen asking when matches will finish. Even if the tournament coincides with a World Cup or a Euro Championships, there remains the feeling that one is at the heart of the sporting world. That may be wrong but it is what Wimbledon imbues into the most disinterested observer.

It has a consoling familiarity amid the shocks and the roars. There is always the sheer eccentricity of The Queue. There are the tedious bores who shout out "Come on, Tim!" when Andy Murray is playing. There are the irritating bores who laugh at this.

There is, though, an atmosphere of joy and expectation. The perks of being a scribbler include access to the odd ticket. I once had one that was shaped like the head of a fish and seemed to have a likeness of Elvis embossed on it.

No, I didn't. But I was occasionally able to pass on tickets to those who had never been to Wimbers. It was fun to watch their reactions as they headed off to courts they had only ever glimpsed on television dragging a large sack full of currency so they could share a punnet of strawberries and cream.

It was wonderful to talk to them later and hear how they had loved their day and that a usurious payday loan was more than worth it for the chance to swig a Pimms.

More strangely, Wimbledon had the same energising effect on this old codger. There would be the odd moment on the road back to Earls Court when I would rely on my faithful Sherpa to carry a laptop that was still sizzling from overuse. But I always retained a love for the tournament, its rituals and its occasional oddness.

One may have noticed the past tense. This year Wimbledon will just have to get by without me. To everything there is a season and for me it is post-season in that I will be switching over from the shopping channel to watch Wimbers on the box rather than scurrying up to my designated seat on Centre Court with rising excitement and a Yorkie stolen from a colleague.

But the desire will remain the same. The exploits of Andrew Barron Murray both dominated and illuminated my days in SW19.

He arrives at Wimbers yet again as a contender for the title. It would be wonderful to be there if it he wins it. But, then again, I was there when he became champion two years ago. That should be more than enough to ask as an observer.

Anything more might just be greedy, if eminently super tasty.