I've been keenly anticipating The Ashes series since discovering that the suburb next door is called 'Tufnell Park' - apparently not named after England's most hilariously poor cricketer. Memories flooded back of the ruthless flaying of English cricket by the likes of Border, Waugh, Taylor and Boonie. But ever the cautious fan, I've been hosing down my internal hopes of a pommy thrashing - just in case. The only thing worse than a repeat of the Rule-Brittania-singing, St-George-flag-waving hysteria of last year, would be humiliation at my having predicted a bloodbath.
So, I'm responding to congratulatory comments with a sober-faced nod - presenting the face of reasonableness and balance as a Trojan horse for my escalating excitement. I'm making excuses for England's cricketers and invoking the oppressive heat of an Australian summer in their defence. All the while gleeful at the seemingly dischevelled state of their players (is that botched botox or sunburn on Flintoff's nose?). Its too early to tell, but things look promising. Five-nil is not too much to ask. Wouldn't our queen be pleased!
btw - I sighted our very disowned Rolf Harris last week..... waxing lyrical outside the opening night of Dirty Dancing. Thought I'd squeeze in a spot of celeb spotting while waiting for my bus home from school.
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