All Ends Up

"Well, I see life as a game of Twenty20-"

"God, no wonder you're so fucked up!"

-Yep, we're now doing the cricket-as-life metaphors in our house. More evidence, perhaps, that we are either turning into the BKs or breathless, lukewarm philosophers in the style of Mark Nicholas.

But 407-0? For us far from the subcontinent, it's a distant dream. That's definitely something to be interested in, however breathless or lukewarm you may be...

. . . . .

And so the mocks are over, albeit in a rather ramshackle, arrive-whenever-the-hell you like manner. I refuse, however, to dissect my performances any further: what's done is done. That and, of course, the fact that the more I think about it (it generally being History) the worse I think I have done. So, on Thursday morning I went home feeling quite cheerful and self-satisfied, but Monday evening brings uncomfortable self-doubt. Must. Have. Results. Or I may spontaneously combust. I care too much.

Except in Maths, where there genuinely isn't a hope in hell of finding that light at the end of the tunnel.

*

Matt's rugby team remains, miraculously, unbeaten, and so his frequent treks down to Kent on these wet winter Saturdays aren't proving to be the waste of time I first predicted. I must say, though, that I'm bewildered as to how he has suddenly become such a good... OK, I know this one. Hooker? Flanker? Whatever, it's irrelevant. For whatever position he plays, the fact remains that prior to September he'd never picked up a rugby ball. And now, he's become some sort of sprightly, try-scoring private schoolboy. Jammy sod.

But, as he himself confesses: "We're not quite sure how we do it. We spend most of the practises wrestling each other." So, then, it is just luck. Something that my cricketer friends would, perhaps, describe as a get-yer-pads-on-Glenn-McGrath moment. That, though, is another story; one which belongs to last summer alone.

*

And now, a most exciting story (for me). Gideon Haigh is writing for CoU! Running the risk of sounding a) like an idiot and b) like the wierd, bookish, cricketish (not a word, I know) creature Gemma affectionately describes me as, my hero! He's right up there with my column writers du jour, alongside Jeremy Clarkson, Ally Ross, and whoever does the back page of the Times Magazine on a Saturday. All men. Interesting. Does this mean that, as a rule, men are the better writers? Well, Amis is. McEwan is. So, for me, yes.

*

I have to go to John and Edie's for dinner on Saturday. This is generally not a highlight of my life. I don't appreciate having parma ham and prawn bloody cocktail foriced down my throat. I want dessert, not converstation. I won't die of thirst because I don't fancy a drink right at this moment. No, I don't want to talk about school. Go away.

But, of course, I can't actually say any of these things, so I merely end up looking at the door longingly every four seconds, and pretending that I can't hear my Dad imploring me to "tell Edie about school". And formulating plans to get out early, including setting fire to the tablecloth, the dog, Matt...

. . . . .

"Did you see the stylish kids in the riot?

Shovelled up like muck, set the night on fire..."