As Murray took blow after blow on Friday, I had a fair amount of sympathy.
Watching his final set from a bar stool in St John’s Wood, it became apparent we were both in for a humiliating night.

I’d been stood up. And what was worse – it was by an ‘Ex’. Apparently, three years after our break up, his irritating habits would continue to bite me in the arse.

“OMG, I’m soooo sorry, I totally forgot,” he whimpered in genuinely disarming way when I finally got hold of him. Where was that tone of contrition during our actual relationship, I wondered during my two-hour, humid trek back across central London to bonny Peckham?
The evening’s one saving grace was that the Lord’s Tavern (our ‘meeting’ point ), next to the cricket ground, is pretty hot on comfort food.
It’s tricky for me to describe the meal in detail – I ate it too quickly. But I can say that my bruised ego drew some comfort from the rib eye steak’s rich, buttery flavours, chips the size of ping pong-bat handles and a sympathetic waiting staff.
That night, Murray and I faced our public shame together. Although he wasn’t lucky enough to do it with an 8oz steak and a bloody decent Pinot Noir.