( 002 )

[bloodytramlines]

[ Holed up in the shady corner of the Roland Garros practice court, Ollie doesn't care that he's getting red dust all over his shorts. His legs are also coated with the bright orange, as he's been having a bad evening on the clay, slipping and sliding all over the place with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. His trainer has already called it a day, but Ollie has been reluctant to leave the court, despite the uncomfortably humid tempatures. It always gets ... tricky once he gets from the rounds to the quarters and the semis and all. Taking a somewhat vicious swig from his water bottle, he drapes an arm across his knees and stares hard at the net, his racket lying seemingly forgotten on the clay beside him.

The French Open is not Ollie's favourite slam. Definitely not. ]