He looked to be in his late sixties, and was probably ten years younger. His face lined with life, worry, nicotine and grit, he sat quietly watching television.

Aside from the hacking productive cough, which emptied his airways and filled his handkerchief, he didn't say much.

Every fifteen minutes, he would limp to the threshold, suck back a smoke and return to his seat. On occasion, crutches in hand, he'd festinate away for a few gulps of red wine, returning with a glazed, sad look and stained teeth.

As Wawrinka lost to Federer, he said "Those boys used to train around here." And we talked about where he was from; locals don't often stay in Youth Hostels, I thought.

He was a local. He'd fallen and injured himself, and lost his apartment. Now he had nowhere to go, no money, nothing. He was lodging at the Hostel, at the expense of his health insurance, sharing a four-bed dorm with an endless parade of rowdy travellers and the odd drunk teenager.

He sat watching the tennis. Coughing. Homeless.