Daisy was feeling a bit poorly the night before and was expressing the sort of indifference towards the outing one would normally expect from cats. I gently explained that this pair of tickets were the hottest items in town and that I was a mere 30 seconds away from placing the second ticket with an eternally grateful friend. I also suggested that she would no doubt feel more enthusiatic about the outing when we woke the next morning.
I was right.
We made a small picnic of nuts, mini tomatoes and baguettes stuffed with cream cheese and parma ham. A delightful little Saffer Red (we are abstaining from Aussie wine throughout the Ashes, as we did in 2005) and some water made up the drinks menu.
Our cab from the posh, expensive but reliable minicab company did not turn up at the appointed hour. The posh but (normally) reliable minicab company denied all knowledge of our booking. Daisy’s and my mood jointly deteriorated.
We resorted to the seedy, cheap and normally unreliable minicab company round the corner, who turned up within seconds of our call. The driver didn’t know where Lord’s was and barely spoke enough English to enable us to direct him there, but between the three of us we somehow managed to get there remarkably quickly. Daisy’s and my mood jointly revived.
We were near a large group of Aussie Fanatics of the older variety, who looked very enthusiastic for their team, but not especially threatening. Behind us sat some young English fogies in posh hats swilling Champagne and talking down England’s chances.
We drank a little wine and ate the nuts, but soon realised that the cricket had finished before we had eaten our main feast. We decided to eat our baguettes and tomatoes while Atherton and others erected their contraptions and expressed the usual platitudes.
Soon after we had eaten, we took what remained of the wine home with us and took a siesta for a while.
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