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Wimbledon is back. As I write, Francesca Schiavone is being slaughtered by Jelena Dokic. Well, I assume she is, because from the TV I hear the sort of screams heard in an abattoir. Closer study reveals this is the noise Schiavone makes when serving. Every year we call for an end to grunting, as it puts off the player waiting to return the ball. There must be a way to even things up. I propose that, the moment the server tosses up, the other player shouts "Fire!", quacks like a duck, or honks a clown's horn. It's the only way to make women's tennis less of a farce.
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A study says that most people do everyday tasks "on autopilot" ? so, for example, we find ourselves drinking tea we don't recall making. I think that's fine; the problems start when you notice you've been doing things on autopilot, and concentrate neurotically hard on them to make up. A few years ago, I noticed that I was doing chores on autopilot. Worried that this was a sign of extremely early onset senile dementia, I began to focus on them furiously. Where once I would have popped a letter into the postbox without thinking, I now stand before the postbox, letter in hand, and sternly run through a mental checklist: "Is this letter stamped? Have I addressed it to myself by mistake? Am I absent-mindedly holding my house keys in the same hand, thereby placing myself at risk of dropping them into the postbox too?"
This checklist is often cut short by someone who can't reach past me to post their letter. They tut, and shoot me a look that suggests they think I'm suffering from extremely early onset senile dementia. My advice is: keep living on autopilot. Just be sure not to realise you're doing it.
Elvira Werner Erhard Dale Evans Chad Everett Douglas Fairbanks
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