Is it big hitter Andy's year for glory at Wimbledon?

SUMMER is finally here.

No, I've not gone completely bonkers as I know half the UK is still on high flood alerts and weathermen up and down the country who predicted a BBQ summer are currently in hiding.

No, my summer smiley mood has zero to do with our four-seasons-in-a-day madness. It's down to the fact that Wimbledon is just around the corner and Euro 2012 is in full swing for all the footie fans out there.

A summer of sporting bliss, not to mention hot men in very small shorts, only marred by the fact Scotland didn't qualify, although I'm assured by those in the know that despite an unfortunate early exit from Queen's this is definitely Andy Murray's year, fingers and toes crossed anyway.

I remember as a little girl how excited I was when Wimbledon kicked off. At the age of 11 I'd be up and out at 9am chalking up and transforming our street in Garrowhill into Centre Court.

While I was doing this my little sister would be setting up the chairs for the players and umpire before the tournament began.

There were about 12 children in my street all around the same age and they would all congregate at our house because there were so many McManus girls.

We would be divided into boys and girls and then one by one would come forward to pick a name out of the bowl to see which player you'd be.

Every girl in our street wanted to be Steffi Graf and every boy wanted to be Andre Agassi. One summer, myself and my sister Lynsey were disqualified from the tournament by my mother because my sister picked Martina Navratilova out of the bowl and I picked Steffi.

This led Lynsey to accuse me of peeking under my blindfold when choosing a name.

This led to me calling her a scaredy pants because she knew I'd beat her in our match then finally both of us rolling around our front garden surrounded by 10 children shouting "Fight, Fight, Fight" and ending with my mother picking us both up by the scruff of the neck and marching us indoors.

We spent the rest of the day with our faces pressed up against the window, crying as our pals played right through until teatime.

I live in a tenement flat in Shawlands now and I don't have any kids of my own as yet. But when I look out on to the street I don't see any children out playing.

To be fair, it is a busy old place and every street has parked cars on the pavements but I hope that kind of summer magic still exists and I really hope there will be children praying they pick Rafael Nadal or Andy Murray in the draw or for the girls hoping to be Maria Sharapova or Serena Williams.

If there are any of these tournaments going on, give me a shout if you are looking for an ageing, out-of-shape Steffi Graf wannabe to umpire.