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Williams was seemingly in control early, serving for the first set at , , when things began to unravel. She missed two backhands in a row, then put a forehand into the net to set up a break point, and walked over to the stand holding her towel at the back of the court the ball people normally handle towels for players, but not during COVID On the following point, Williams sailed a forehand long to get broken.

You should tell me on the sidelines next time if I need to play faster. Believe me, I will. You didn't even give me a warning. While Williams eventually did grab that set, she again frittered away a lead in the second, plus a edge in the tie-breaker. When she sat after the second set, the year-old American tossed her racket over her shoulder the way an office worker might flip a crumpled piece of paper toward a trash can. Djokovic was treated by a trainer and played sluggishly in his opening match Monday, but he was at his best from the outset against Sandgren and saved all four break points he faced.

Djokovic will face 34th-ranked Jan-Lennard Struff in the quarter-finals. Physically, I pulled up OK. Naomi Osaka put on a solid serving performance to beat Dayana Yastremska , and advance to the quarter-finals where she will face Anett Kontaveit, who beat Marie Bouzkova , Osaka fired eight aces to zero for Yastremska and needed just over an hour to dispatch the year-old Ukrainian.

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Serena's loss 'like dating a guy that you know sucks'. Can you get down the corridor without peering through the open doors at fellow passengers unfolding their undies? The Edwardian in me, the little boat man, the tiddly, fusspot claustro-phile, however, exulted in my own cabin. L5 was fitted out in a yellowish blonde wood with multiple cupboards and hidey holes. Jones one hanger and then, after negotiation, a second of the four available in our tiny wardrobe. I had smuggled enough clothes aboard for breakfast, lunch and dinner so I was looking forward to a bout of Marx Brothers slapstick when it came to getting dressed.

We would be negotiating to be the sitting window-tenant too. Otherwise: perfection. Two bunks, the top one folded away during the day , a neat little refuse door, a handy inset mirror with switches the exact function of which was still to be explored , and a door to our own private bathroom cubicle-cum-small cupboard washing-facility-locker. I stupidly expected to find a shower off it and started looking for the door. But it doubles up. You shut the door, douse everything and then a secret attendant clears it up.

We were winding our way past those interesting half-used suburban platforms, those back gardens, those fencing panels, sheds and graffiti that litter any out of town track and distinguish a place far more than its central international shopping experiences. I wanted to stay and gaze on the porches and the cricket fields, the exotic flowering trees and cemeteries but we moved forward. A form. A diversion from the supposedly boring business of travel itself. I just wanted to look at the rusting cars and the tin roofs.

T he Blue Mountains were satisfactorily blue, or rather a dusty green. The long distance colour is attributed to a haze of eucalyptus oil. We had explored and poked our noses into things, failed to answer Trivia questions, unpacked and forensically examined the saloon car by this point, and now there was time to gaze through the windows. Valleys dotted with trees slipped past.

My wife spied a wallaby. But then I commandeered the window seat and peered into a marsupial-free dusk until my eyes ached. T he livery of the dining car was attractive and sumptuous. This was railway as railway should be. Solicitous staff offered second helpings and free drinks.

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Our rooms were discretely serviced while we were absent - no heaving down of bunks by yourself in a swaying cabin. We ate well and prepared to sleep badly. I woke at 5. I peered out under the blind.

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The biggest pit of silver, lead and zinc in the world had obviously been discovered in a dirty semi-arid sort of dump. There were slag heaps.

Pit machinery. A low sun bathed it all in a golden light. He was lamenting the falling population of Broken Hill, brought about by technical improvements to the mining process. We were on an authentic working-man experience. Right down to the tea and buns in the corner of the Institute. An agitprop sketch of the kind that that had last fired me up in the Seventies followed.

I applauded politely, as I had then. A s the train slid on and away from Broken Hill, I wondered how long we had been in this new, red, raw landscape. We had fallen asleep amid green hills, but now we were definitely in the out-back. There is no official barrier. But the dusty semi-desert and scrub reached out to the horizon on both sides. It was exciting to spot a ditch. Even, perplexingly, the occasional wet one. It only rains about eight inches a year here, and yet there they were, the whole eight of them, lying in a trough by the track.

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T here were sheep too. At one point, there was a village or, at least, a cluster of houses by an empty road. And strangely there was a funny little house on a quarter acre, surrounded by a tight wall, firmly sitting in its designated plot. It might so easily have grabbed hold of a few dozen acres of Dungeness-style emptiness without anybody noticing, surely. But, of course, someone actually owns this bare wilderness. M rs Jones spotted another two kangaroos. I had already gone back to my book.

But now I set it aside and again stared avidly into the Ned Kelly landscape, noting the lines of sage bushes, the wind-flattened hills and the absolute absence of marsupials. Aaron, the steward, arrived to clear our breakfast table. I frowned and was back gazing hopelessly into the emptiness.

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The outback on this route was not interminable. Suddenly we were in rolling grassland again: South Australia. An isolated, grand farm stood up a white drive in a stand of trees. As I come out of our cabin two guys were coming down the other way talking. I scuttled back like a crab to let them pass. Like Leonardo de Caprio, assuming I might be ordered back to steerage at any moment, I joined my new friends to visit the posh bit.

This was a long train. Dozens of carriages repeated the formula of a sleeping compartment, a saloon carriage and then a dining car, in turn. This was where the single bunks were. He pulled the door open to show me a genuine room with two armchairs side by side which would transform during dinner into a couple of single beds. And, to one side, he ushered me into the ultimate luxury appurtenance - a whole bathroom.

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Later we popped into their lounge area to stroke the duck-egg leather covered banquettes. It was more money, but the ambience was similar in both classes — relaxed, spacious, olde-worlde-timey-travelly-throwback-rolling-stock-luxury. Though he was certainly as old as me and I was older than most. We lost some passengers and gained others. Avoiding chocolate, lederhosen and wine excursions Mrs Jones and I settled for a tour of the Museum of South Australia, where we were escorted past the icons of the route ahead: aboriginal artefacts, minerals, entire skeletons of extinct ocean predators from opalised fossil bones and the skeletons of megafauna.

T he next morning I quietly celebrated my 65th birthday 12 hours out from Adelaide, in a red-earthed wilderness dotted with green bushes and spindly trees under a sharp blue sky. I decided this was limbo perfection.