Dream On...

...this time one knew not even to ask. By their lunchtime and my bedtime early this morning, England were in a tolerably good - if fragile - position. Yes, so our tail had once more failed to wag - though that would hardly matter had the head roared a tad more - and Warney's magic was clearly capable of conjuring him that missing Test century. But surely, just the once, one could go to sleep and not fear waking to more dire news?

Ever fearful, naturally, one peered hesitatingly at the morning scoreboard: England effectively 12 for 5 and walking the plank into the vat of waiting whitewash. Thus, in an instant, another day is ruined.

So, tonight, no more of 'to sleep perchance to dream...et al'. I shall keep at sentry-post, awake and alert, if despondent and slightly drunk, until that last ball is bowled, the last wicket falls - clearly it will be by and to Shane Warne, that is a banker - and the Green Baggies raise their caps in delighted good cheer.

Then like all good sporting Englishmen I shall join in applauding the Oz fighting spirit, their desire to succeed and their sheer brilliance in every aspect of the game. (I may also have to excommunicate Harold down at the local garage, whose grandmother once visited Australia, but that will be for another mournful day!)