Where to Find Elegance

Several years ago, I found myself lingering, or more truly, loitering at the entrance to the Syndey Opera House. This building as anyone who has ever received more than a few postcards knows, is the most stupendously weird and aquatic building. Perfectly situated on the edge of the harbour, it just fits. As I was musing on this, a train load of opera goers started to amble their way by. I wonder what the generic term for the opera goer is by the way - no doubt something befitting their assumed, or sometimes perceived, elegance and standing. Women wore dramatic evening gowns and men handsome suits which struggled to conceal the consequences of good living. It was all very pleasant and cultured.

I speak of this night as it not only reminds me of a wonderfully exotic and exciting time rushing around the surburds of Syndey, thinking that life doesn't get much better than this, but because I am wondering where one finds elegance.

Elegant and svelte are two of my favourite adjectives. They go much further than 'stylish' and have a lighter touch than 'beautiful'. They are romantic and have a kind of inherent movement and swish to them. But how to define them and where to find them?

Some people find elegance in the haute couture of the cat walk. The cuts and lines of clothes certainly do have a certain attraction especially when enlivened by siren like models. Others visit the national galleries to glimpse the economy and brushes of the masters. Still more darken the doors of theatres and chambers in the hope of finding the classics rendered once more in simplicity and elegance. Me - I turn on Sky Sports.

As a young child, one year Father Christmas brought me a swing ball. Since then I have been addicted to sport. Sport is unneccessary and peripheral but somehow becomes an arena which captivates whole nations. It also can provide moments of such transcendance which make the 9-5 wrothwhile.

My first idol was Boris. I learnt how many times he bounced the ball before serving, how many times he swung the racket before winding up to serve - pretty much everything. There was something dashing and hopeful about him diving around Centre Court, as though anything were a possibility. But our house was split down the middle - Becker or Edberg. Everytime I went for Becker, the German panzer against the Swedish artisan. Where Becker bullocked, Edberg caressed.

Now I think I would go for Edberg. He had a slightly haughty air about him, which accompanies all the greats. Today Federer has that same kind of presence which can transport us to the sublime with a flick of the wrist or a smash of the forearm.

Perhaps the most elegant of all time was Ali. In the most brutal and carnal of sports, he was physically stunning and weaved a story which encompassed far more than the ring and fight halls. Its plot extended from the racist ghettos of the deep south to the cold war arena of Vietnam to the tyrannical poverty of Zaire and lastly to the fraility and falability of human existence.