It’s the second week of Wimbledon, and already I’m mourning its loss.

Not at any other time of the year do I even contemplate turning on the TV during the day. Not for Loose Women (which I’ve never seen), nor Countdown (seen once) or any of the million-and-one home makeover shows.

But during Wimbledon fortnight everything else is abandoned – washing, ironing, cleaning – some days I don’t even wash my face until bedtime.

Wimbledon is special, and it’s not just the tennis. Nowhere else insists on all-white clothing. It is depressing to see that, like cricket – where the World Series in the late 1970s led to players wearing coloured ‘pyjamas’ – top level tennis venues are accepting clothing more befitting London Fashion Week.

The French Open served up many garish outfits. Venus Williams topped the bill with a bright pink top and patterned leggings. She looked like a young teenager hanging around a shopping centre.

I was disheartened to see leggings at Wimbledon last week, but at least they were white.

Men’s tennis fashions have degenerated even further, with many outfits looking like replica football kits. Andy Murray sports a particularly hideous blue top with yellow tie-dye sleeves.

But Wimbledon is strict on whites – I even heard talk of a warning for Roger Federer for wearing shoes with a thin orange strip around the base.

Unlike at other major tournaments, the courts at SW19 aren’t emblazoned with adverts. When I’m watching tennis I don’t want to be reminded that I should be driving a Peugeot, banking with Santander, or using an Orange phone. Some courts have so many adverts dotted about I’m surprised the players can see the ball. Wimbledon has so far resisted, and long may it continue.

I do have a few grumbles. In days gone by players walked off together after a match in a nice, sportsmanlike way. Now, in most tournaments, the loser skulks off even before the winner has put away his racquet. And why do players now need a towel after every shot? Isn’t it sufficient when they sit down every couple of games?

I also hate the Royal Box. It’s always packed with the same toffs-with-time-on-their-hands: the Pippas, Beatrices and Eugenies of this world. Half of them probably aren’t even interested, just going along for the free lunch (and I’m sure there is one). Later in the day, when they’ve all got bored and gone off for tea at Fortnum’s, its half-empty – which is even more infuriating.

I’d love to visit Wimbledon again, having been only once, 30 years ago, when I stood for seven hours in Centre Court. I couldn’t manage that now, and wouldn't have to, as standing was scrapped in 1990 for safety reasons. Maybe Pippa could give up her seat.