Well, the hype, the revisists of 2005, the opinions of any passing Aussie, Englishman or Mongolian, the 16 different singers singing 16 different national anthems – it all must have completely exhausted me. Because ten minutes into the coverage of the real thing – a nice couple of shots of fthe hip and legs by Straussy and Cooky – I barely stifled a yawn, turned over on the sofa and had a long nap.
By the time I emerged from slumber Cooky and Straussy had gone, but things seemed all right because Ravi was giving it a fair whack. Or seemingly not. The lunchtime highlights brought the truth home to me. What was the Essex boy, on who so many hopes are placed, up to, skying balls left, right and centre, and generally just out of the reach of Australian fielders.
A touch of nerves then? Perhaps; but then he got done by another slower one – and if he hadn’t seen enough of those during the Twenty20 his mind must have been on a round-trip to the outer solar system.
So far, then, it’s the age old story of England batters getting in, then getting out and it”s back to KP and Colly to wrest back the initiative. How often have we watched them do that. They seem drawn together so often I think they may be twins, one of whom was snatched from Pietermaritzburg hospital at birth. Can they do it? We’ll see. Well I’ll see from the dubious comfort of my gym saddle, peddling off the pounds as the pair lay into the Aussie attack.
Or, if they fail, I may have to take it out on the punchbag. Or the kettle balls. See you later.