Lines and lengths

Lines and lengths, chapter two

T20 games are all over in a few hours, forty and fifty over games are over in a longish day, test matches take five days. The last England Australia test match was one very short affair, in terms of time skipping by because it was so enthralling.

A bad T20 game can provide more tedium than a tepid five-day test match. The perception of the passage of time really is relative. In the wrong place, listening to the wrong person, a second weighs a ton. From last Wednesday to Sunday, cricket lovers needed nothing other than a radio capable of receiving TMS, and the Sky highlights between eight and nine in the evening.

Unfortunately, there’s now four whole days until the second, Lords, test.

Luckily, one of the most boring people in the world can’t make the T20 game tomorrow, so I get to go with MM, which is a right good result.

I liked cooking…

…but with as with any number of other enjoyable things, it has now fallen by the wayside. Maybe it’ll be missed, and maybe not, but I’m packing it in, for good, I think.

Instantly, I’m in the anti-foodie camp.

The Observer Food Monthly features rubbish: ice cream, Stella Rimington, shop-bought scotch eggs, taramasalata, pork pies and quiche.

Today’s food features top three are about raspberry cheesecake, cocktails, and the joy of packed lunches.

I don’t like ready meal convenience food, so I don’t know for sure what I’m going to be eating from now on, but I ‘aint gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.

The company will probably be pleased, a few more hours worked every day, as instead of going home to eat and sleep, it’ll now mean going home to sleep, then going back to work the next day. Being hungry because of not eating last night hasn’t improved my temper today, but I’m tired of being nice to people I hate in any case, so it may be quite cathartic in shifting some otherwise bottled-up anger.

Goodbye, kitchen…

…where, now, will I sit?

Goodbye to any lingering doubt…

…about the royals. No wonder HMRC’s finest Gestapo are on my case. Prince Charles owes them the tax on his £19m a year (that’s just Camila’s tab at the fag-shop) income, or something.