One of the advantages of spending my formative years in close proximity to two English manor houses (my Dad was a gardener) was my siblings, pals, and I were never far from a tennis court. When these courts weren’t in use, they were often invaded by scruffy infants clutching a variety of superannuated and warped ball thwackers. In fiction and movies, these clandestine sessions would have turned me into a formidable adult player. In reality, a lack of application and formal training, mean I’ve ended up a middle-aged mediocrity where tennis is concerned.