there are long moments after waking from a night of strange and restless dreams followed by deep deep sleep, when i am unable to work out quite where i am or what is going on. some faces i have never seen before are vaguely familiar other faces i know seem somehow twisted.

sometime after the end of the last ashes series i (and cricket with me) fell into a much needed sleep. it is only now upon rising that the tremulous excitement at the thought of facing another series so soon sets in. the strangeness of the day, its newness, only makes the excitement pile on with the exuberance of a youth in white zinc and a broad hat. jaques i recall from a dream.

my dreams were filled with epic figures exacting a menacing vengeance upon the world. there were strange matches and innings which could be of no possible account.

i have heard that the english squad is touring with a poet in tow. he will strive to write a poem a day for each day of the series. My own personal revenge, thank you very much, handed a sitting duck.

he’s going down.