World Twenty20 Day Thirteen

And so we reach the aberration that is the blank day. It is for our own good, no doubt; the spectators’ version of the warm-down; to prepare us for life after Sunday’s finale. But it is a damn strange feeling, not to be going through the old pre-match routine. For the first time in thirteen days, there were no anthems to respectfully observe and no need for a brisk pre-game perambulation around the living room to loosen up those hamstrings. Out of force of habit, I brought the remote control in to silly point, moved the television a little straighter at midwicket and placed a cup of tea at short fine leg. But it was all pointless. I felt like Mahendra Singh Dhoni rearranging the complimentary condiments on his flight back to Mumbai.

So instead, I turned my attention to the rolling acres of Hughes Hall, where, if I am honest, the underprepared surface has more than a tinge of green about it and the outfield is on the lush side. Inspired by what I had seen over the preceding days, I unearthed a rusty old scythe and set about the job Twenty20 style. Taking a low grip, I cleared my left foot out of the way and swung mightily. It was all going swimmingly until I attempted an ambitious switch-scythe hit and very nearly stumped myself.

I reined myself in after that and settled for a little light spadework in the vegetable patch. Wielding my three pound shovel with Dilshanic virtuosity, soil was soon flying in all directions and I quickly found myself well ahead of the dig-rate. Sadly, play had to be abandoned for the day when one of my exquisitely timed scoop shots sent a stray pebble sailing high over the boundary fence and through my neighbour’s bathroom window. Unfortunately, in the absence of video replays, I can’t say for sure whether he caught it or indeed how many feet he had on the ground at the time.

Back in the safety of the pavilion, I decided to catch up on my reading. Of the many good things on the Cricinfo site, I was particularly taken with Tanya Aldred’s highly entertaining piece on just why we are not warming to our chums from the Cape. I would add just one more observation: they look like school bullies. No-one ever roots for a bully, regardless of how troubled the bully’s upbringing may have been.

It isn’t fair, but I suspect that we won’t be feeling warmly towards eight foot tall Graeme Smith or Bulldog van der Merwe until they are collapsed on the Lord’s turf in disbelief at around half-past eight on Sunday evening - the time of day that is known on the mean streets of NW8 as ‘the choking hour’.