Sunday, 14 October 2012
It all sounds rather lovely, much nicer than the sensation of the impact of a cricket ball against one's own forehead in a Brussels park on a Sunday morning.
I just introduced my son George to cricket, and his agression as a batsman somewhat outclasses my own defensive instincts as a bowler. I remember a Tom and Jerry cartoon where the ever suffering moggie was hit on the head by an anvil dropped from high above. Little Bluebirds flew around his head, twittering sweetly while he lay on the ground with a stupid expression on his face. Today, I shared this experience. I do not recommend it.
The funny thing was, lots of Spanish people took an interest in all this. Continentals do not share our respect for personal space, and if there are 50 empty benches in the park, then the obvious place to sit with one's familia is on the very same end of the one bench where some crazy English guy with a large and rapidly growing red swelling on his forehead is trying to explain the rules of cricket to his son.
But I love such days, and I will remember this one for a very long time.