435? Yes, my son.

Right then. Tonight, I have a free evening; they're becoming rarer, and once Mr. B gets his claws into me, I'm predicting that my social life will finally be driven to extinction. So here I am, making the most of it...

...by writing my blog. Hmmm. I think I need to sort my priorities out, really.

But anyway. There are much more pressing matters at hand. I have a dance assessment in less than a fortnight, and by that time I must have transformed from a sulky, skulking background dancer to a sinuous, Darcey-Bussellesque goddess, complete with a fucking false smile and a sudden desire to show off. And I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to pull it off.

And an interesting, if not slightly random, fact: my future Philosophy teacher, whom of course I cannot name (!) is actually a Cambridge graduate! Who'd have thought it? And, naturally, the egg is all over my face for making so many chav jokes over the years...

Never judge a book by the cover, children.

. . . . .

"OhMyGod. He's gorgeous, don't you think?"

"Um. Not really. And he's an Aussie, so I'll have to pass. And the hair-"

"Robyn. The hair is very, very cool. Do you think he's married?"

"Oh, fuck off, Andrew Symonds wouldn't marry you in a month of bloody Sundays!"

The aftermath of The Greatest Match in ODI History (courtesy of Richie Benaud and all at Sky Sports, though few would expostulate) has left the Cricket Sisters in a spin. Uma has decided she is going to marry Sideshow Symonds, and has been scouring back copies of The Wisden to try and see if he's got a wedding ring. Very, very sad. And smacks of the kind of obsession which will lead to her emigrating and hovering outside his house for three years. My Dad, not a C.S in the usual sense, but there you go, has smiled continuously for three days, and has decided he likes Graeme Smith. Will has had a coronary. And, most importantly, everyone I know and adore (though not those from school, who have yet to discover the limitless joy cricket brings) has Sky+-ed the (excellently edited) highlights programme, and can describe in surprising detail shots, the runs and the annihilation of the bowlers. So we'll have a lot to talk about for a fair few weeks yet.

Or, at least, until England get their act together and start getting some runs, and KP stops arsing around trying to hit 'em out of the ground and sulking when he's out. Could be a while.

As will be my next post, at this rate, but alas, there are pieces of ribbon to be burnt.