Not played this fixture before and faced a mission to get there. I’d normally bum a lift but was out of luck. That meant a train to Moreton in Marsh and then a 20 mile taxi ride. Lunch had better be good. Game was called off 15 mins before I left home.
I am often at a Tube station with cricket bag waiting for a lift to a new part of the country. I love it. That’s how I get my kicks. Perhaps it’s because everyone’s off to work and I’m reading a paper, leaning against a railing, feeling superior, watching the world go by while at the same time wishing I was earning the same coin as those passing by.
In summers past, I use to loiter at Baker Street by the corner of the Globe pub, waiting for a lift from a Nonagenarian. I have known him since he was a Septuagenarian. He’s the President for life for a wandering club I turn out for. Of late, many in the club fear getting into the car with him. I’ve always felt safe with his driving. I can’t drive; so I wouldn’t know any better. We had a scare last year. We joined the motorway- in the wrong direction. For twenty, thirty seconds we were both unaware until we saw traffic streaming towards us. I haven’t accepted a lift since then.
It was a sad end. GP had been picking me up since I was 16. We’ve been up and down the country together. He’s chided me for being late, shook his head when I played a bad shot, told me his life story as a vet to royalty, bought me countless drinks and let me into certain arcana.
When we meet he still asks why I didn’t seek him for a lift. What am I to say? I don’t want to die before I get this hundred.