Welcome to Land of the Giants. If you are young man out there with ambitions to date a top tennis player (a woman, of course - anything else is your business) I suggest you either need to be man mountain or have a wardrobe full of built-up shoes.

No wonder just about every top girl at Wimbledon complains they can't find a boyfriend. What they mean is that they can't find a man able to look them in the eye. This year, more than ever, I have noticed just how tall the women players are. Take the top four most glamorous names at the championships: Maria Sharapova - 6ft; Ana Ivanovic - 6ft; Venus Williams - 6ft 1in, and Serena Williams - 5ft 10ins, but I think they must call her shorty in the changing rooms.

Now imagine them in a posh frock ready for the Wimbledon ball at the end of the championships, decked out in five-inch heels. Blimey, they must have to bend down to get through doorways. What is going on? Are they fed raw meat at these junior tennis training camps?

Owen Slot, who sits next to me here in the press room at Wimbers, is a dashing young fella-me-lad and I would consider him well proportioned - not too tall and not particularly short, as well as being fit as a butcher's dog. He was trying to fix up lunch the other day with the fragrant Daniela Hantuchova (5ft 11ins and, believe me, all legs). If she put the high heels on, she would tower over the chap. Unless he wore his, of course.

Perhaps this is a trend. We keep reading about short men with tall girlfriends and wives, so maybe Sharapova and the gang should prepare themselves to lower their sights if they want a man.

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By the way, am I missing something, but why do so many - particularly middle-aged - women spectators come to Wimbledon wearing full tennis gear? Do they live in hope that one day Maria Sharapova will suddenly have a fit of the vapours on Centre Court and the umpire will turn despairingly to the crowd? His eye would suddenly alight on one of these short-skirted matrons in row six and call out: "Mrs Slackbody, could you please come forward to complete the match on behalf of Ms Sharapova and for the sake of the nation and the watching millions?" As if.

Although - and you can happily correct me if I am wrong, for I often am - I seem to remember in the dim and distant a performance at the Proms of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana at the Royal Albert Hall when the tenor suddenly passed out on stage. There was a kerfuffle before some scruffy herbert among the Promenaders down at the front piped up that he was an amateur singer, who had recently performed the piece. Ten minutes later, he was in a dicky bow and singing his heart out. Brought the place down. So there's hope for Mrs Slackbody yet.

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As I appear to be the tall girls correspondent at Wimbers this week (thank you, boss), it is my duty to report today on the pulchritude of Ms Ivanovic. Yesterday, Sharapova, today Ivanovic. It's a dirty job but someone's got to do it. Anyway, Ivanovic is quite lovely, too: lithe, tanned, smiley, and she has won about £1.2 million this year alone, which makes her a top bird in my eyes. But sorry, Ana. My heart still belongs to Ms Sharapova. I await her call.

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We are distressed to report this, but the louts have discovered Wimbledon. Two extremely drunk Australians - wearing vests and shorts, for goodness sake - were reported to have been thrown out of Court Two after disrupting Lleyton Hewitt's match against Albert Montanes yesterday. What is the Wimbledon world coming to? I have even seen spectators wearing football shirts. Time for a dress code, methinks.

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Meanwhile, I have laid awake all night wondering how that dear old chap managed to eat his apple yesterday. A 60-year-old man was arrested at the security gates when he was discovered to be carrying a fruit knife among his belongings. Either he was knife-wielding nutter or a gent of advanced years with dodgy gnashers hoping to spend some time under Wimbledon's lovely pergolas enjoying some lunch, topped off by a lovely red apple. We will never know as the old chap agreed to allow the Metropolitan Police to destroy his fruit knife. So we are all safe now. So, presumably,was the apple .... until he got home.