Transcontinental

August is not one of my favourite months. The weather is generally unsettled and sticky, and I'm usually bound to the office because it's the time everyone else is on holiday. Further, dealing with clients, it's hard to get problems sorted because their own key staff are thin on the ground. There has been very little spare time this week, having to deal with so much shitty stuff, and feeling a bit out of sorts too. When I develop a ticklish cough and a muggy head it's a sure sign I'm a bit ru down.

Each day has been very much like every other, thus the lack of any journal. The only thing to note was the test match. I was following the text commentary on Thursday morning while in a teleconference, reading of wicket after wicket tumbling to the rampant Broad. It was almost as exciting as watching it for real. After being witness to so many bullyings at the hands of the Aussies, I - like all Englishmen (and many women too I'm sure) - took huge satisfaction from such a mauling ... until I realised that the match was virtually over by lunchtime of the first day and that, once again, I was going to miss out on being able to watch any meaningful cricket at the weekend. Indeed, the last two weekends of scheduled test cricket has yielded a grand sum of forty minutes of play. I guess we always like to have a moan. There is just this little bit of me that wished that we'd had at least one match where both teams turned up to play their best cricket. That would have been great to watch.

It was one of the very few evenings this summer when it was warm enough to sit outside and have a drink. Sun-baked Sandra here was a little self-conscious around having her portrait taken, but she said I could take a picture while she drank her pint. She may have inadvertently started a new series. I rather like this. And it's also a toast to the England cricket team!