Corruption, it's everywhere. Well, except on Monday in the outer reaches of Wimbledon on court 18 where Chris Guccione and Thomaz Belluci were toiling away in the sunshine. Patrick Foster, my esteemed colleague here in the press room, turned his investigative eye to the betting patterns following the match on Betfair, reckoning it was ripe for a bit of monkey business.

After the revelations of the weekend that Wimbledon is on red alert to seek out illegal betting, the Belluci-Guccione match-up seemed like just the sort of obscure fixture that would attract a lower class of punter. But, let's say the money didn't exactly flow. Four quid over the first hour, to be exact. To be fair, things warmed up towards the end but for this match at least, Wimbledon's investigators could relax.

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Not so just up the avenue at Court 11 where Elena Baltacha almost broke the Wimbledon code of conduct. Poor girl blubbed her heart out into her Wimbledon towel at the end of her first round match, overwhelmed by her victory after all her appalling health problems. But any prospect of keeping the towel as a souvenir lasted about a nano-second as a ball boy whipped it away, saying "You can't keep it, you know."

Pity, but towel theft was a major problem among the players here until Wimbledon had a bit of a crackdown. You think these players are all hard-bitten professionals but they are just as soppy as the tourists and all want a piece of Wimbledon to take home. Trouble was the dressing rooms were running out of towels until the players were warned to leave them behind. To be honest, Elena, we would buy you a towel but the "At Large" budget won't stretch to the £24 they are charging in the Wimbledon shop.

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Anyway, carrying a bath towel back to the digs after a hard day's graft at the wordface isn't very appealing, given that your correspondent is on foot. Thought of hitching a lift this morning with the official Wimbledon transport, a fleet of black people carriers provided by one of the big hire companies.

They send the Ford Smax diesels out to pick up the players to make sure they get to the courts on time and in one piece, which is a lovely treat for some of the more obscure names on the Wimbledon entry list used to lugging their gear themselves onto planes and trains. Rubbish, though, when they lose and go out of the tournament. A couple of years ago, one of our team bumped into Alex Bogdanovic after he had lost in the first round (again!) on the bus. Bless. Bus for him today then.

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Back to Baltacha, because she seems a lovely lass but reckons she is a bit lonely. She was telling us about the sacrifices she has had to make to get into shape after her long list of serious illnesses, which included giving up her favourite pepperoni pizza. But she was also saying that she has no boyfriend because there is no time for romantic attachments.

She is one of four top British girls permanently camped at the National Tennis Centre out at Roehampton in west London. Training is six days-a-week, and up to ten hours-a-day and there are no opportunities for the girls to let their hair down with a few alcopops in a nightclub. They might be under-achievers but it does seem a bit unfair to lay into the British girls, even if it is a mystery that we cannot find even one to compete at the top level in Grand Slam tennis.

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Wonder why David Nalbandian is so unpopular with the press here? Could it be something to do with his surly answers to legitimate questions? Try this sample exchange from his press conference after his first-round defeat:

Question: Did you feel your preparation was good?

Answer: Well, not 100 per cent ....

Q: In what way?

A: Injuries.

Q: What's the injury?

A: Can't tell you.

Q: Why?

A: I have to?

Q: Just interested. No.

A: All right.

Q: Are you worried it will sound like making excuses?

A: There's no reason to talk.

Q: Did the injury hamper you on court?

A: I already answered that one ...

And so on in that rich vein. It was torture.

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By the way, Eason at Large is a bit late out of the blocks today thanks to the number of times he was ambushed on the way to Wimbledon. You have to run a commercial gauntlet on the long walk down from Southfields tube station to get here. Nike, those ace marketeers, are first in line: you see Roger Federer wear the sweater (white with gold trim, I ask you) on court and then they tempt you to buy it in the Nike shop about 50 yards from the tube station.

But then, there are the lines of promotions girls dishing out mineral water, ice cream, newspapers (don't worry, it's only a struggling rival, we wouldn't stoop so low), energy bars and whatever else while there are ranks of burger vans. You could almost have a three-course meal on the way in .... but you would risk getting the ketchup down the front of your lovely Federer sweater and it is, er, £260.