The problem with cricket is you wait 3 or 4 weeks for the rain to stop, then you finally play a game in a muddy field, and are brutally reminded that you’re actually not very good at it when you get out for a very low score.
Indoor bowls is becoming a more and more attractive option. Apart from being immune to the vagaries of the British summer, there’s sartorial considerations to be taken into account.
I discussed this with my sister on the phone the other day, and we gradually built up a picture of me in a pair of grey slacks with elasticated waistband, flat shoes, and a diamond-patterned jumper.
“In lemon. With socks to match.”
It’s a seductive image.
Wiseman might find such a makeover beneficial himself, given that his blog character page has not been receiving many hits recently. I have caught him murmuring idly about appearing on Celebrity Big Brother in an attempt to restore his public profile. I trust it won’t come to that.
Meanwhile, at work, a state of emergency has been declared after we arrived this morning to discover a small loch in one of our consulting rooms and a waterfall coming through the ceiling. It transpired that the boiler in one of the flats above us had no overflow pipe as such, apart from the interior of the building.
Dish, perhaps unable to work in such conditions, or possibly in French-style solidarity with the Edinburgh postal workers who have just gone on strike, tossed her head petulantly and stalked out. But we coaxed her back in with some biscuits.
No cricket this weekend, due to music commitments at church, and so no chance to improve on my dismal average.
I don’t really hate cricket. It only takes one or two days after a catastrophic batting performance before you’ve forgotten all about it and are itching to get playing again. That elusive half-century is only a few scratchy boundaries away, after all…