In the early moments of this morning it all became clear that we had a champion at the helm. After months and months of worry, indications that he may not carry it off, and general concern that after everything he's done, everything he's put himself and the country though, that we might not make it.
Make no mistake: the failure of G4S to provide the requisite security staff is a true debacle, and lampooning a pitiful British summer has always been fair game. But one of the less helpful stories to have emerged in recent weeks is the discussion of so-called 'Plastic Brits': members of the British Olympic team who were born overseas.
What is it about being British? We go and invent all the best sports in the world and then give great sportsmen like Andy Murray a hard time about whether he is more Scottish or more British - or ever going to win at Wimbledon.
All the physical preparation for the Olympic Games will be wasted - unless athletes are prepared for the 'anger games' on a psychological level.
I have no personal animus against Andy Murray, and I dare say it is irritating not to win a tennis match, but precisely when did we turn into a nation of snivelling losers? At what point in the history of the last hundred years did the stiff upper lip start to quiver; Did it stop being shameful for a grown man to burst into tears just because he came second in a game? Did it become possible for a serial runner-up to become 'champion of our hearts' not with a bang, but a whimper?
Andy Murray will be remembered for crying after his Wimbledon Final just as much for his gutsy tennis. He said, through his tears, he was getting closer to eventual victory - but is his emotional reaction revealing the real truth of the matter?
In three days the Andy Murray caricature has gone from almost instantly dislikeable - moody, angry and seemingly spoilt Scotsman - to gracious, emotionally resonant British hero who, whether destined to win multiple Grand Slams or not, is beloved of a nation.
Can I really be alone? Can I really be the only Brit to find Murray's post-Wimbledon blubbering neither moving nor touching but mawkish, inappropriate and self-indulgent? I have seen greater pluck from my five-year-old daughter when bested in the egg-and-spoon.
I've already heralded Wimbledon, as an event, the greatest sporting tournament in the world, and Wimbledon 2012 has proven to be the best of its kind in my memory. It had it all; shocks, fairytales and plenty a headline story.
The British sports fan is like a child beauty pageant mom, thrusting our not overly-pretty little girl in front of the baying flashbulbs when she'd much rather just be getting on with being a kid.
They say a week is a long time in politics, but what about sport, not to mention finance? The past seven days have been remarkable if for nothing more than their volatility, with headlines changing faster than terrorism alerts on British motorways. Is mentioning the tennis a bit like mentioning the weather? So obvious a topic as to make this entire blog worthless, and likely to jinx any chance of a sunny outlook?
I'll be more than happy to belt out "Flower of Scotland" if Andy Murray can take that final step into the realms of greatness on Sunday. After all, my ginger hair would suggest I've more in common with Murray than I do with Ronaldo.
In the wake of our plodding footballers and hard-to-love tennis players, why do we insist on worshipping the least deserving sporting heroes?
There are few, if any, other sporting tournaments in the world that embody tradition as much as Wimbledon.
I genuinely wish Andy Murray the best of luck at Wimbledon, as I do all the competitors, because I take a passing interest in tennis and thus feel qualified to express some half-hearted sentiments about it.
Laura Robson strikes me as centred, sorted and secure sportswoman capable of taking criticism in her athletic stride. Sadly, there is a body of evidence suggesting that ill-judged remarks only add unwanted and unbearable pressure to the strain of competition for other female athletes.