NOT TESTED

I really wanted to surprise you today with this.

In my mind, I had it all planned out: There might have been an enigmatic photo or two posted of the "Where am I?" kind, perhaps the latest in my series of cloudscapes with a cheeky red building and the playing area lurking underneath in a rather unsubtle way, but it would all have served to let you know that I, yes, little old me, had ventured out into the big, wide world and actually engaged with it.

Such an enigmatic air is not unprecedented. I once flew to Barcelona for a long weekend and didn’t tell a soul at work until the postcard turned up a week later. Maybe it’s just me trying to cultivate a vague air of mystery, or maybe it’s just that I don’t handle disappointments well and so I struggle to anticipate or look forward to things until they actually happen, just in case they don’t.

But, you know, even the best laid plans can go awry.

Anyway, perhaps I need to fill in a little bit of context here.

When I returned from Harrogate a couple of weeks back, there on the doormat amidst the pitifully tiny pile of mail and leaflets – we think our Postie is avoiding us – was an envelope containing Test Match tickets which had been bought for me as a “Special Super Surprise 50th Birthday Day Out” gift from my sister and her family, which was, of course, completely unexpected and a lovely thing to do. She’d obviously thought it through a lot, knowing that Sundays were obviously not work days, and I was – in so far as I ever am - a very happy bunny, for a while at least.

Naturally, the realist side of my subconscious started whispering into my brain about thing like the weather and, despite there having been an almost unprecedented number of games stretching into the fifth day this year, sometimes they can be all over rather quickly and leave you with little or nothing to see on the fourth day.

But I dismissed the voices in my head, instead deciding to just keep schtum about it around m’colleagues and m’cyberpals just in case I ended up disappointed, and, when the India team’s first innings collapsed so spectacularly on the first morning, I did begin to wonder.

But, you know, a couple of sessions of rain, or a spectacularly long England (and Wales) innings followed by a sterling fightback by the Indian side, and this could have turned into another five-day corker, with Sunday being the key day.

A storm duly washed out much of day two, increasing the possibility of the game being extended to later days, and, as I departed the office on Friday with my lips still firmly sealed and a twinkle in my mind, things were still looking good despite the weather people suggesting that former hurricane Bertha would be dumping what was left of its water all over Britain on Sunday.

Anyway, shortly after tea when India found themselves 53 for three and then sixty-six for six chasing 215 to just make England (and Wales) bat again (don’t worry if you don’t understand the technical stuff here, just try to enjoy those lovely numbers), my stoic approach had already begun to crumble, and  was soon discussing my plight amongst strangers and friends on various social media which was, at least, therapeutic for me as the cheers from the radio caused me to roll my eyes again and again.

Soon, it began to look as if those tickets might not be needed at all, or, perhaps even worse, the prospect of sitting in a soggy stand all day just to see three balls bowled to finish the match began to become a distinct possibility.

Anyway, that didn’t happen. India were all out for 161, still 54 runs behind England (and Wales)’s first innings total, and the match was won and lost in about two-and-a-half days.

The thing is, I don't normally much go to “things” any more, or even enjoy the prospect all that much. You know, crowds, people, leaving the house, they all kind of bother me in a way that few other people seem to understand as I shudder inwardly (and, to be fair, often outwardly, too) at their tales of pop concerts, sporting events, marches, and suchlike.

But we decided to approach it in the right spirit and I was rather looking forward to a civilised day in the sun in my linen suit watching the game, perhaps enjoying a bit of banter with our fellow customers, perhaps bumping into a TMS commentator or two and enjoying telling them how bloody brilliant they are, hopefully taking the odd snapshot, nibbling on a sandwich or three and sipping at a civilised glass of elderflower cordial or somesuch, and so we were prepared to give it a go.

Mind you, we might have only actually got “Sitting under a brolly looking like we were in an ‘Extreme Weather’ documentary” but those are the chances you have to take, I suppose, if you’re thinking of attending “things…”

In the end, the most disappointing aspect is possibly that my sister actually tried to do something nice for me, and, because it is me, this was, perhaps, always going to be the inevitable outcome, and also that it’s not looking as if there’s going to be any more Old Trafford Test Matches for a couple of years now.

No wonder I'm so bitter and twisted...

I mean “Yay!” for the win, of course, but “BAH! Bloody Humbug!”

Still, reading the back of the tickets, I ought to be able to get her money back at least, so no real harm done...