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Yesterday I took advantage of the sunshine to spend some time in my garden. Newspaper on my knee, Sam the daft cat lying on his back next to me with is feet in the air, silently challenging me to a game of dodge-claw, just breathing in its peace and quiet. It made for a very nice contrast with the seismic upheavals shortly to afflict or rescue the country depending on how you view it.

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It’s that time of the year again; the first day of the Wimbledon fortnight, and the first thing I do at this time of the morning – it’s 6:23 as it happens – is to thank the sequence of unlikely events since the Big Bang which have resulted in me being able to sit on my bum on a Monday afternoon and watch it.

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Tribalism is a funny thing, and will no doubt crop up again in various posts, and while its links to football are as obvious as the nose on your face – no offence intended if your hooter is, shall we say, not to be sneezed at – I hadn’t considered how I might use it to my personal advantage.

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