Sorry!

Mornin', all. The second Tuesday at Wimbledon, the Grand Slam event that most scrupulously sticks to the SFD (Scheduling Fairness Doctrine, which mandates that all players compete with as close to equal rest as possible), is off-the-cliff day.

Monday, it's like the battle of Stalingrad, with all those intriguing and competitive fourth-round matches featuring both sexes playing out. You can almost hear the screams of agony and outrage, the bellows of courage and rallying cries. Bodies blow up (just ask Andy Roddick) left and right, chaos stretches from Henman Hill all the way to Court no. 2.

Then comes Tuesday. Women's quarterfinals. All four matches played in the exclusive confines of Centre or No. 1 Court. No men's singles, because the wounded are recuperating to fight again Wednesday.

Tuesday is a good day for ladies walking around in big floppy hats, their fleshy arms roasted pink by an unfamiliar sun. Proper gentlemen, including members of the All-England Club, escorting their wives, who emulate the Duchess of Kent, not, like the kids, Lady Gaga. Greasy-haired and pimply teen-agers in ghastly t-shirts and hip hugger jeans, frayed all around the edges down at their flip-flops. British youth have disheveled down to a science.

Sorry, but it's kind of dull on Tuesday. Er, did I say "Sorry?" Forgive me for adapting the protective coloration of the local species.

Ever notice how the British have mastered the gallant, ineffably polite, utterly insincere, one word synonym for any number of sharper words or expressions, including*. . . Whatever. . . .What's your problem?. . .Get out of my face . . . Goofball. . .*Sometimes, you can imagine the thought bubble accompanying that crisply or enthusiastically rendered "sorry": Forgive me for failing to remember that it's your planet!

The other night, I watched a guy in a restaurant complain about the cigarette smoke wafting in through the open, floor-to-ceiling windows, where a few slackers stood around on the sidewalk sucking down Rothmans. One of the kids took a half-step away and said, "Sorry." Then he grinned from ear-to-ear.

Three women are blocking the narrow sidewalk as you walk up; at the last moment they part just enough to let you pass and sing out in unison, in a flirty, gay tone: Sorry!

A guy in an intersection drops his umbrella and looks up as you pass him by: Sorry!

You think, What the hail are you apologizing to me for?

That would be the pre-emptive "sorry." Just in case his dropping his brolly has cause you an inconvenience. But there are other sorrys, too. All kinds of sorrys, to cover all kinds of situations. I think if you inadvertently broke wind while walking down the street, you'd tease a sorry out of someone, even as you were so aflame with shame that you couldn't bring yourself to utter your own word of apology, which is really the one that's required.

Instead, you get the sympathy or empathy "sorry." Sorry! Hate to be present to see you embarrass yourself! Which, come to think of it, is one of the nicer manifestations of the "sorry" obsession. It would certainly be less consoling if, instead of saying "sorry," the gentleman or lady said: My, what a pathetic, gross creature you are. . . Of course, that's exactly what he's thinking, but the "sorry" softens the blow and invites you to lie to yourself: Well, I guess that wasn't so bad. These folks sure are nice and polite, so maybe I'm over-reacting here.

The only problem with that, of course, is that next time you might be more inclined to allow yourself a little lapse in manners, or judgment, either knowing you'll be forgiven, or at least not called out about it. But that's okay, the British love to be tolerant, and having the upper hand is a little like money in the "sorry" bank. When they turn you down for inappropriate dress, or some other consideration you seek, they can smile pleasantly. Sorry!

But on the whole, British have been very good about not taking advantage of their orgy of apologetic exclamations. Thankfully, this doesn't appear to be one of those slippery slopes, although it's slicker than it once was. If these folks weren't truly polite, down deep, they'd be barging into each other left and right, blowing smoke in each other's faces, knocking over little old ladies, belching on the bus, filling the air with the war cry of politesse, real or imagined: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! Remember, kiddies, you can do anything  you like as long as you remember, when taken to task for it, to say, Sorry!

Okay, so today I'll be watching all four women's matches, but I'm planning on writing about the Kvitova vs. Kanepi match. You watch, this big, serve-and-volley capable Czech girl, Kvitova, has the game to win this whole thing.

Sorry!