Land of hope and gold medals

Dear Mum,

As you and Dad moisten yourselves with suntan lotion and rum based cocktails in sunny St. Lucia, and Katy feasts on meatballs and listens to ABBA in Sweden, I am in the country’s capital where the world has turned its gaze to.

I was pretty iffy about the tour of the Olympic torch. This was, after all, a tradition introduced by Hitler, and so not a practice I really wanted to revel in.

When the torch passed our building and my colleagues flocked to the window, however, it seemed rather snooty not to join them.

When clapping my eyes upon the torch aboard the Gloriana, and the masses of people lined along the pavements with flags and banners, I jumped on the Olympic bandwagon, or Olympic barge, myself.

Pippa and I were unable to leave the TV set during the Olympic Opening Ceremony, pausing it if we required a wine top up, shushing one another if a favoured athlete appeared, and were both insistent that we must watch every country process through the stadium.

From there on the two of us can only be described as addicted.

The BBC Sport page, never before clicked by the yellowing mouse of my laptop, is now constantly open on my laptop and work computer and refreshed at regular intervals for updated medal tables and news feeds.

We text one another with excited messages, often in block capitals, (‘GOOOOOLLLLLLD!!!’ or ‘Phelps is a beast!!!!!!!!’), providing one another with updates if one of us has nipped to Tesco or is in the car and unable to text.

Not only have we both found a competitive streak we didn’t know we possessed but we have learned so much.

Why cyclists take it in turns to take the front position in the Veledrome. What ‘slalom’ means. What classifies a false start. Why Mitt Romney is a total butthead.

Admittedly, we got off to a bit of a wobbly start. Displaying the South Korean flag rather than the North Korean at the opening women’s football match was (excuse the pun) a total balls up. It was worthy of something in the satirical comedy Twenty Twelve.

And I’m not sure about the NHS extravaganza in the Olympics Opening Ceremony – I don’t want it to be a defining part of our national identity, thank you very much.

But as I type this we have 34 medals. 22 behind the US, 24 behind china. Not bad for a tiny island with a lovable but bumbling mayor of London and a reputation for obesity.  

But since Helen Glover and Heather Stanning crossed the first finish line in women’s pair rowing, the first British women to do so, and the gold medals have rained down on the British, it has been abundantly clear that the British have a real sense of camaraderie, both for their nation and their teammates, but also for other athletes.

The slapping of backs, the bumping of shoulders, the tapping of arses; it’s like a love-in at the Olympic park.

Seeing Andy Murray with a gold medal around his neck, watching the four English winners of the canoe slalom dive into the water, leaning toward the TV as Jessica Ennis crossed the finish line... it’s enough to make you want to take up sport.

As you well know, Dad and I are taking up archery. Perhaps one of us will be an Olympian yet.

Though I know Dad would like his 5”2” and slightly gobby daughter to pursue a career as a cox.

The day is young. I’m only 22. But even if my career as an athlete didn’t quite work out I would fully support by nation like the rest of the British people.

Though if I did win a gold medal I would absolutely dedicate it to Mitt Romney.