The pressure!

Things could be worse. I could be a professional tennis player! That is what I said to Howard just now over breakfast.

Poor Venus Williams.

I would hate to be her!

(Yes, I know it should be "hate to be she," but somehow that just sounds wrong. So hold off the grammar lectures.)

There Williams is losing at Wimbledon to some nobody from Bulgaria. And her parents are watching from a box. And she keeps turning around with her palms up, shrugging. That is what the paper said. As if to say, what can I do?

The pressure! The stress!

Then, humiliated before millions. Including your parents.

Your parents telling you later: "It's all right, honey. We all have our off days." Meanwhile your little sister advances to the semi-finals.

Thanks, that is not for me!

At least if I stumble here and there working on my book, there are not thousands of people there to observe me. Say I put my foot in my mouth while talking to one of Leonard Pennario's friends. At least I am not in the international spotlight -- not yet, anyway.

I am glad I am me!

(Yes, I know that should be "I am glad I am I." But somehow that just sounds wrong.)