Trent Bridge...

I’d researched where I should park the Romahome, while I had a day at the cricket. But then, by chance, I found a pub - the Ferry Inn - and a convenient (free) car park, in Wilford Village, next to the River Trent. So yesterday morning, I started my day with a walk along the river to Trent Bridge, soon being joined by other cricket fans: mostly other old geezers in shorts and broad-brimmed hats.

Of course, yesterday’s cricket was mostly about the Indians turning the screw - quite slowly - and batting England out of the game. But that was OK. A day at the cricket isn’t just about your team doing well. It’s about drinking crap beer out of plastic glasses (I kept one as a souvenir), having an ostrich burger for lunch, chatting about cricket and watching the parade of people dressed up as nuns and superheros. There were half a dozen Zulu warriors, in traditional garb (except they really were Zulus). An old geezer spilt his coffee over me; he apologised, and kept on apologising, but it was OK. I had a postprandial snooze, missing nothing of any importance.

The sun came out when Cook and Jennings faced the last ten overs of the day, and at least we didn’t lose a wicket. I don’t mind India coming back into the series, because I don’t much care for one-sided sporting contests. I’m happy to watch a sport where it’s OK to applaud the opposition. And I saw something I bet no one else noticed: an osprey soaring over Trent Bridge!

The stationmaster waving off a steam-hauled puffer at Pickering railway station...