THERE are many intriguing aspects to the close observation of a thrilling young talent and one of these is the way the entire nation turns into a benevolent old uncle at the drop of a set. Or aunt. We are concerned, supportive, occasionally worried, frequently elated, but we have no direct responsibility. All the pleasures of avuncularity are available to us.

There was the great uncle moment when Gary Lineker said of Wayne Rooney, playing in an England shirt: “I think we’ve got one ’ere.” And that is the way it is with Andrew Murray, as we learn more of his nature and more of his talent.

And like all good uncles, we rub our hands as if it were all our own doing. Each new revelation of character and talent seems to be a compliment to ourselves for recognising the talent at an early age. And so, after the week of Murray’s life — so far — we can bask in the enjoyment of the exploits of a favourite nephew.

Beating Andy Roddick in the semi-finals in San Jose was good; didn’t we always say he had it in him? Beating Lleyton Hewitt in the final was a lot better; that was putting two big games together, one after the other. We may have said that he would do that one day, but the speed of it took us by surprise.

But there were still more revelations of his precocity. Victory complete, he turned not to mother or to coach, but to a pretty girl and tasted victory from her lips. He had beaten two of the finest players on the planet, one after the other, and then given his girl a hearty snog at the end of it all. Damn and blast it all, why wasn’t my youth like that? Or yours? Still, as uncles (or aunts) we can still enjoy it vicariously.

The lips belonged to Kimberly Sears. Like Murray, she is 18. She was Murray’s entire entourage in San Jose. She was on her half-term holiday. Now Murray goes to a tournament in Memphis, Tennessee, while the information is that Kimberly goes back to Brighton to carry on with her A-levels. Drama, music and art, since you ask, although Murray could give her a few lessons in drama.

She is the daughter of Nigel Sears, a British tennis coach working with Daniela Hantuchova. Murray met Kimberly during the US Open last year and managed to keep it quiet until the incontinent moment of victory blew the gaff.

This was a great teenage adventure. Murray’s coach, Mark Petchey, didn’t travel to San Jose, wanting to spend half-term with his family. So the kids did it on their own and in this mock-grown-up jaunt Murray found within himself the reserves to outplay Roddick and Hewitt.

You can say what you like about Murray, but he’s not Tim Henman. Murray, rightly and wisely, speaks eloquently of his debt to Henman, but more and more he is showing that he is not only Henman’s successor but is his antithesis. Henman, at his magisterial best, was cold.

Murray is hot. He has a singed-barbed-wire haircut, he does wild expressions and Celtic yells, he is always passing out or vomiting, he is usually in a ferment and in the moment of triumph, he fought his way through to his girl for a triumphant, public kiss. Not very Henman, no.

“We have absolutely no worries for Kimberley,” Sears père said. “She is a very sensible girl who loves to have fun. They are two young kids who are very happy.”

The avuncular nation cheers these words. This highly promising boy is in the process of becoming a man of achievement. He moves up to No 47 in the world — top 50 and rising. We make cautious predictions, but Murray is always that bit ahead of us. No doubt Kimberly can take that in her stride.

Responsibility is a fine thing when it comes and it allows those of us who have acquired responsibilities to look back on the carefree years with a glowing nostalgia. Especially when we see the principle of carefree youth acted out so lusciously before us. Go to California for half-term and hijack world tennis; not bad. Life should be like that.