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Brolly good?

The forecast was not promising but you still convince yourself there is a chance. The BBC have got it wrong before, right? I mean if Michael Fish can miss a hurricane there might be a Fleckneycentric hole in the clouds that allows 22 blokes to rub around without the need for flippers and scuba gear. Grasping at straws perhaps but 70 percent chance of rain is not a guarantee , is it?

So you wake up and you listen for traffic on the road outside. You hope for sound of rubber on asphalt without any of that wet stuff, sadly your hopes are dashed.

Perhaps it isn't much water you tell yourself as you begin to realise that you have less chance of playing than finding a bacon sarnie at a vegan conference. You pull back the bedroom blind and that idea hit the ground harder than an obese hippo with a cheeseburger addiction.

OK, it's desperation time. You realise that there are people who live closer to the ground than you, perhaps your outlook of watery desolation is not matched elsewhere. You grab your phone and text the skipper and hope your view is mirrored elsewhere. It isn't.

At this point you realise the game is literally up. Almost by some kind of marital telepathy a voice comes from upstairs as Mrs Roving Reporter enquires,"Is the game still on?".

"No my dear"

"Shall we go to your mother's then?"

"We probably should..."

Curse you Mr Fish. I don't care that you are old and long since retired. Curse you!

Until next week....

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