Game, set and match for summer for sports fans
I'd rushed out into the back garden to find out what was causing the unholy row. It sounded a little bit like two feral farm cats going at it hammer and tongs on the patio, with no quarter being asked, or given.
But no, when I got outside, there was nothing. The noise suddenly sounded instead like it was coming from inside the house, in the front room.
And sure enough, it was.
Former champ Maria Sharapova was in the death throes of her Wimbledon campaign, grunting, grumbling and moping around against the even more unnecessarily vocal Portuguese hopeful, shrieking Michelle Larcher De Brito.
It was a day that tennis fans won't forget in a hurry. Like a grass court episode of TV medical melee Casualty, with a dollop of Dallas melodrama thrown in for good measure.
The unusually un-mercurial Roger Federer's shock defeat had bookended a period of play which earlier saw a procession of injury-related retirements, and concessions from walking wounded stars who didn't even make it onto the court in the first place.
And amen for all the unpredictability. These moneybags top stars who all too often expect to just turn up and win without showing an ounce of personality, were suddenly mortal – and rattled. They didn't like it up 'em, and morphed into bad workmen all too keen to blame their designer branded tools.
To be honest, it was delicious to see . . . not to mention most timely.
Because up until that point, the post-football season lull had begun to feel like a prolonged period of official mourning for us armchair sports fans, as we rummaged through our metaphorical bins feeding on a few scraps of sub-standard summer morcels.
Showjumping from Rotterdam, the triathlon world cup from Mexico, and round six of the Australian Ironman contest. Heck, at one point, I even contemplated giving live angling from Essex a go.
Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. I should get a life and make the most of the fact that there's a big wide world out there, particularly at this time of the year when daylight lasts well beyond 9pm.
And I do. The dog loves a sunset stroll, and the garden won't weed itself, after all. But I do love watching sport on telly, and live football is not just a welcome distraction from all the prime-time reality TV schmaltz, it's a much welcome talking point in the pub, and office.
When the autumn and winter nights come around, it's what makes these dark, dank times of the year more tolerable. Egg-chasing rugby players are no substitute.
I'm a strictly spherical sports fan, you see. And happily, after this weekend's Wimbledon finals, redemption is around the corner.
On Wednesday, the most famous cricketing rivalry on the planet is renewed as England defend The Ashes against Australia.
Few sporting clashes serve up such brilliant TV drama. That 2005 series, with Pietersen and Flintoff's heroics and hangovers, won the nation over in almost Olympic Games fashion.
And these cricketers are, by and large, gentlemen. You won't find them shrieking, sulking or griping in front of the crowds if things aren't going their way.
Let's hope, though, that it's the Aussies finding it's all they can do to keep these kind of frustrations from bubbling over.
Come on England . . . us football widowers are all rooting for you to make the rest of the close-season summer go with a swing.
Read Carl Jones's column first in your Weekend Shropshire Star, every Saturday.
