How was your weekend? Me? Um, a little trying. Think Pluto must be passing Uranus or something. It all started on Friday with those flipping late men's matches, with Safin on Centre Court and Ancic on No 1 Court playing in the dark. By the time I got out of the press room, the roads were clogged and there was no way out (Wimbledon does not cope well in a traffic crisis. Silverstone, please note). So didn't get back to the Bijou Love Nest until past midnight, somewhat whacked after a tough week on the courts (not enough carbs, too much fluid of the wrong kind, I'll warrant).

Next day, planned some big reorganisation, starting in the garden. Which lasted all of ten minutes when I heard a shriek and found the partner on her back in the potato patch. Normally that's something I take as a hint on a sunny day, but this time it had gone all wrong. By the time I got to the scene of the disaster, our lovely neighbour, Liz, was tending to the casualty, who was nursing a shattered wrist.

So, lovely reorganisation day turned into a day out in accident and emergency. Many thanks to the staff at the Lister Hospital in Stevenage. First-class service. Who says the NHS doesn't work? We made our way home wearily, one of us nursing a plaster cast, the other clutching the painkillers and settled down for the night. The partner couldn't sleep, though, which was just as well because she shook me at 4am to report that the downstairs toilet had exploded and the basement was flooded. Oh dear.

All topped off on Sunday when I packed again for Wimbers. Discovered car had a puncture, changed wheel, set off for SW19, arriving at the hotel at midnight only to discover there was no room. Some fraught negotiations took place until a room was found on the fourth floor. But then the electronic key wouldn't work and it took 30 minutes to get the door open. Think I'm jinxed?

Anyway, casualty report from the Bijou Love Nest: patient very well but can't butter her toast.

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So missed the Murray match, but read all about Maggie, the dog. I was intrigued that Murray got himself a Border Terrier. I mean, not very butch, is it? He says: "I prefer big dogs but it's a bit hard to take a big dog around with you." Or even take a big dog home. For I know where Murray lives. Actually, it is over the road from my Wimbledon hotel, which is in, er, Wandsworth (don't ask). He has the penthouse in a block of flats that looks like something from the set of a science fiction movie, all concrete and glass, bare and windswept.

I seem to remember Kirstie and Phil saying "location, location, location", so I am still working this one out. To the left is the Solid Waste Recycling Centre, across the road, the BP garage and, underneath, a shop and a Chinese restaurant. He does look out on the Thames - and an industrial estate on the north bank of the river. Wonder where Murray goes to walk Maggie?

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Bit of problem looming if Murray goes all the way. As usual, Formula One stupidly thumbed its nose at the rest of the world and arranged the British Grand Prix for the same weekend as the Wimbledon finals. So we have the prospect of Murray in a Wimbledon final and Lewis Hamilton at Silverstone on the same day, which would stretch a few loyalties when it comes to pressing the telly remote.

Thank the Lord then that Bernie Ecclestone, F1's diminutive controller, pulled the plug on ITV's Formula One contract and switched to the BBC. The Beeb, of course, hold the rights to screen Wimbledon but they couldn't accommodate Wimbledon and the British GP at the same time. So Ecclestone has switched the British Grand Prix to June 21 next year.

Wait for an outbreak of grim warnings that a June date is too early because of the uncertain weather. But then again, if the weather is rubbish, it almost guarantees a fantastic race. You pays your money and takes your choice.

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My only glimpse of Wimbledon on Saturday came while I hung around in A&E on Saturday and I had a couple of minutes to marvel at the stellar line-up of guests in the Centre Court's Royal Box: Sir Geoff Hurst, Sir Bobby Charlton, Sir Bobby Robson, Jonathan Edwards, Dame Kelly Holmes, Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova, Victoria Pendleton and Sachin Tendulkar to name but a few. You could have made up a pretty good First XI out of that lot. And you would have had somebody to administer them, too, as Jacques Rogge, president of the International Olympic Commission, turned up. And Sir Terry Wogan was around to do the commentary.

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By the way, everyone is raving about Murray's new, clean-cut look. Shorter hair and pressed shirts (must have hired a housekeeper for the penthouse). But hold on for the new look adopted by Jamie, his brother. Not so much clean cut as shorn. He has shaved off all his hair and mum, Judy, reckon he looks more like a Royal Marine than a tennis player. As long as he doesn't play like a Royal Marine.