July 14th (Mon)

feeling slightly guilty about having cancelled a couple of appointments, but then,how much guilt is there when I get cancelled at the last moment. Sophie wanted to come to Lords,but revealed that she had work and would have to leave by two. It'd cost her £15 in fares and £20 to get in if we couldn't persuade them she was under 16!! There is also the issue of missing school, as she skived off a day last week.
In the end it's decided, not altogether harmoniously, that I'll go to HQ alone. A drive to Amersham, a pleasant walk through the very pleasant leafy lanes to the station, and almost straight onto a Met train.Never enjoy the met, but bury my head in the Indie. Lovely to read a paper!, and soon we are at Finchley Road, onto the friendly little jubilee train, and dumped at St John's Wood, where the crowds are massing.
Crowd management starts here, LT staff urging the fitter amongst us to eschew the escalator for 110 steps which will do us a heap of good. I feel good as I pass a panting teen half way up, and am still in surprisingly good shape at the top.
More marshalls herd us down a side road I am unfamiliar with. The street is lined with vast cars to complement the vast houses, nay mansions that back onto Lords. What a place to live, and in such style. Lucky bastards, what did they ever do to deserve it?
The queue is expertly dealt with, and a bonus are the kids giving away free milkshakes en route. I manage to get hold of three of them.
Once inside the Boers are at practice on the nursery ground. Andre Nel, not playing in the test, cuts a scowling, glaring presence which is scary even when sending down a few in the nets.
I opt for a place in the Grandstand, a splendid stand affording a good side on view and protection from the sun, which is supposed to beat down on us today.
The game starts slowly, then stagnates. Mackenzie has been batting for about a fortnight for his ton, and at this rate Pluto will have completed another orbit of the sun before he gets to his next. Amla, a shaven headed, crazy bearded Muslim scores the occasional run, but this is not going to be anything other than attritional.
It's pleasant though, watching out on the wonderful sward, peering nosily into the exec boxes with my fantastic £11 Aldi binoculars, and listening intently to TMS in my earphones. Tuffnell has added a new and mischievous dimension to the team, and I am starting to warm to the upstart Pougatch. But where Mr Bond, is Blofeld?
Lunch arrives with barely a shot in anger having been assayed, and I head off down to the canal to the cafe I had visited with R at the NZ test match. Same food, a slightly too cheesy bacon baguette, but nice enough, and a lovely spot where I can watch as the canal boats disappear into the tunnel beneath my feet as I eat. The canal holds great memories of childhood days out at London Zoo, and I can never see a boat chug by without wanting to be aboard.
There's brief excitement back at Lords as Mackenzie finally does something rash and is caught, and Kallis follows not long after. But it is not to be and the match reaches the stage where everyone realises the game is up and goes through the motions. At one stage they go off in perfect light and try and shake hands on a draw. Everyone seems to agree the game is over. But no, the sun shines brightly and this appears indefensible, so out they come again for a couple more overs. Amla meanwhile has actually stirred himself to straight drive for a four to bring up a well deserved century. Even the most maniacal fundamentalist looks less menacing with a broad grin on his face and his bat aloft acknowledging the appreciative crowd.
I wonder whether to go into town for an hour or so. Perhaps it's age,but I cannot summon up the energy. I sit on the concourse at Marylebone and watch the world go by, retire to the bar for a pint of Bass, and struggle up the platform and onto the crowded train home.
Then it's curry as usual, with for no apparent reason a free Bombay Aloo chucked in. That'll help the diet then.