I WATCHED a great deal of Wimbledon.

Probably too much since, when the sun shines, it is nearly always better to be out and about, even if merely pottering in the garden, than indoors staring at a box.

Still, stare for long periods I did, and here’s my report. I:

• Admired Sue Barker’s flawless, unflaggingly cheerful presentation. We might not have the world’s best tennis players but we have not only the world’s best tournament but, surely, the world’s best grand slam host.

A mic picked up a stray off-air remark by Sue: “Oh God yes, love one” – probably an overdue cup of tea.

You can’t imagine, can you, that, even off air, Sue would ever be guilty of effing and blinding about anyone or anything?

Marvelled at Tracy Austin’s long, long fingers. Her US Open title and well-informed commentaries aside, she might have missed her true vocation as a concert pianist.

• Welcomed John McEnroe’s penchant for wearing a tie – an unfashionable item I still favour.

But, though possessing undoubtedly the finest tennis brain on the planet, Mac talks far too much. It was a blessing during one match when he quit the box midway through to join an American channel.

• Wished the ladies’ singles trophy was presented by a lady. A presentation party consisting entirely of men in suits is dreary.

Duchess of Kent, where are you? And if those remarks are sexist, so be it.

• Regretted that the presentation line-up seemed to exclude the ball boys and girls – vital to the championship. Restore them please, Wimbledon, not forgetting the oncecustomary appreciative word from the club president. And while you’re about it, why not officially name Henman Hill, er, Henman Hill – to end the annual conjecture?

This year “Robson Rise” was suggested, but the Hill is synonymous with the years of Henmania.

What about the tennis, I hear you ask. Well, rather better than the curate’s egg, it was brilliant in parts, but there was little that was sensational.

Since even the greatest tournament constantly needs refreshing, new names on the singles trophies are greatly welcome. But to get back to the things that matter, I: • Hated all the seemingly obligatory fist punching. The brutal gesture suggests a fist smashing a face. When did it come in – and is this show of aggression really necessary to maintain a competitive edge? Turned off by it, I therefore:

• Enjoyed the warm embrace shared by Sabine Lisicki and Marion Bartoli at the end of their hard-fought quarter-final. Also, the fact that they walked off together.

Roger Federer flew the flag for sportsmanship even more gallantly when, no doubt feeling grim at having been swept aside in a (for him) mere quarter-final, he too waited patiently to accompany his conqueror off the court.

But finally, and against expectation, I:

• Felt sorry for Maria Sharapova. After her defeat in the singles final, she made a gracious speech but her voice betrayed her deep disappointment at not regaining her Wimbledon crown.

I suspect that henceforth the crowd will be with her, especially if she abandons her kissthrowing Queen of Wimbledon routine.

Here’s to next year though, in all honesty, I hope to find better things to do than spend the best part of a fortnight watching, slumped on the sofa.