Sunday 20th May

I had slept badly; another night of fidgets and two o’clock insomnia.  The glass of water beside my bed was empty, and I knew I should go into the bathroom and fill it, but despite this obvious solution and my dry mouth I just lay there tossing and turning and looking desperately at the clock to see if yet another five minutes had passed yet.  Eventually I must have dozed off, but as soon as it was really light I was awake again.  I managed to stay in bed until 5.45, then slipped downstairs, fully intending to just make a cup of tea and bring it back to bed, read a few pages of Jean Rhys and slip back into slumber.  But I made the fatal error of sitting on the sofa, and switching the TV on.  They were showing the arrival of the Olympic Flame from last night, and even though I had seen it, I sat and watched it all over again.  Then the cameras were at Lands End, and the Torch relay proper was about to begin.  And despite my reasoning that this whole palaver was such a concocted piece of theatre to try and drum up some interest in the Olympics, I suddenly felt the first pricking of tears in my eyes.  Why on earth should I be crying, and especially at this item.  But it really tugged the old heart strings.  All those times I had watched the Olympics before as a child, Rome and Tokyo in fuzzy black and white, and Montreal and Moscow, and showbizzy Los Angeles, and beautiful Barcelona, and more recently Sydney, Athens and Beijing, I never once thought it would be happening in London.  And even when we won the bid, a degree of cynicism was always circling at the back of my mind.  But now, suddenly it was here.  And the joy of the public was palpable, even Ben Ainslie looked stunned, and as each runner took the torch on a bit further I was so excited.  For an hour or so I became again that small child marveling at the Olympic Flame being lit in far away stadia, and it was lovely.  Just that, a bit sentimental, but lovely all the same.