Jonathan Trott

Jonathan Trott

The bloke that made such a good job of batting at number three for England has decided to come home from Australia and the Ashes series, to battle mental illness.

There were early signs.

He was batting when the winning runs were scored in one of his first games, and, before leaving the crease to celebrate with his team mates, had a last couple of scratches and scrapes of the pitch, marking and re-marking his guard. Trotty being Trotty, or early indications that all wasn't quite right?

He's been a magnificent player for his (adopted) country and deserves to be left alone to recover however he needs.

The spectrum theory

IF's spectrum theory:

If you think you're not somewhere, albeit maybe at the blunt end, of any spectrum anyone cares to mention, or invent, autistic, OCD, manic depressive, each and every one, then you've just confirmed the need for a long session of therapy.

The there but for the grace of god theory, even.

The vagaries of cricket

Cricket is particularly brutal on the mind.

Batting: you can play faultlessly, then one minor, minimal slip sees you dismissed. You can be batting at, say, four in the order, sat around for hours while the openers and number three fill their boots against a bunch of pie-chucking bowlers the opponents have to use because their front line are all indisposed that particular week. When your turn comes, you can face the usual wicket keeper's ball of a lifetime that sends you back to the pavilion, where you can sit and watch numbers five and six bat for the rest of the afternoon.

You can bowl your heart out for no reward, and have your last, tired, over smashed all over the ground to spoil your figures, finish your spell, then see the next bowler take wickets with rank full bungers and long hops.

Old age means...

...starting to feel the cold. We've all had those mates with no sense of hot or cold. My one wore the same kit: jeans, plimsolls, white t-shirt, grey v-neck jumper, through all the seasons, all weathers, come shiver or swelter. I was never that extreme, but it took something for me to consider a jumper, and sub-zero temperatures for the coat to come out of the wardrobe. Not no more. I need fleeces, jackets, hats, gloves, and woolly socks. That's just to go to bed in, outdoors? There's more layers I can squeeze into, surely. D the Dog needs to start coming back so I can do away with the lead and get my hands back into my pockets where they belong (and where it's warmer).