Stumped by my new love of cricket
Am I the only woman outside England who has fallen asleep to the sound of Geoffrey Boycott muttering about balls on willow for the last month?
Before I met my husband I didn't believe that any man not of English descent had the slightest interest in cricket, but it seems I have married one who does, despite his distinctly Ballymenian roots. And this means listening to coverage of The Ashes on the radio from around 11pm onwards whenever there's a match on (a lot).
At first I railed against it - I prefer to fall asleep to the comforting strains of Radio 7 drama (with Bill Nighy recently - utterly ideal). But lately I've found myself lulled off by the sheer incomprehensibility of the language. Silly mid ons, square legs, the corridor of uncertainty ... it's like being whispered to by Finnegan-era James Joyce in the dead of night - and by Jove, I rather like it.