The team decide that they need a more experienced batsman to bat with the tail. The current number seven doesn’t protect the batsmen below him properly, so this is where I, Laurence Elderbrook, come in.
It’s an overcast day and our batsmen struggle. Before long the fifth wicket falls. The time has come for Laurence Elderbrook to take his stage.
Before I walk out, I take a moment to compose myself in the mirror. Resplendent in my cream flannels, I look immaculate. It is time.
As I turn away to pick up my bat, I catch a brief glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. I point my elbow towards the mirror. It sports a horrific, green grass stain. This will not do.
I reach into my kit bag and calmly select a second shirt. I examine it thoroughly. It looks immaculate. I discard its soiled predecessor and don shirt number two.
As I pull it over my head I realise that the top button is fastened. Alas, too late. I have rushed into my attire with undue haste and the button has come off. I survey the garment with a considered eye. It is far from immaculate. This will not do.
Suddenly I hear a noise from outside. Are my crowd growing rumbustious at my prolonged absence? Apparently not. A team mate pops his head round the door and delivers the fateful news: I have been timed out.
It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. I let fly a huge, bestial roar and decimate the mirror with a blow from my forehead. In order to more thoroughly underline my profound dissatisfaction I strike the mirror thrice, at which point I am overcome by an unusual light-headedness.
I walk outside, catch the umpire’s eye and flick the Vs with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few.
Everyone admires my restraint. They admire me.