Modern sides bat right down to number eight and as no-one else is up to the task, I step up.
It’s deep into our innings before I am called upon. The bowlers will be flagging by now. I will take advantage. 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.
I watch the bowler run in and immediately spot that he has overstepped. I can attack with impunity. Unfortunately, I am not accustomed to facing such a soft, old ball and I’m through my shot before the ball has arrived. The ball strikes me on the pad and it is at this point that I realise the no-ball has not been called.
I look up at the umpire and implore him with my eyes. As his finger rises, those same eyes turn fierce.
It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. I discard my bat and extricate the knife that I have concealed inside my bat for just such an eventuality.
I get within two steps of the cad who has affronted me before the fielders reach me. For a moment I maintain my forward momentum, but then the wicketkeeper leaps on my back and I fall. I feel the knife torn from my grasp.
As I am escorted off the pitch with my arms held tight behind my back, I throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar.
After the match, I see the umpire in the bar, enjoying a beer. I approach, catch his eye and then gob into his pint with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few.
Everyone admires my restraint. They admire me.