Ashes Fever part 1

Something strange is happening to me. Its July and its warm outside. I have a bad case of pollen allergy at the moment, and my eyes are streaming. The work is coming in slowly, so I have a few things to be getting on with.
Only, I can't seem to get motivated. I can't seem to shake off this overwhelming emptiness I'm feeling inside. I can't easily describe it but, with difficulty, I will try to do just that.
The Ashes urn is the prize that awaits the winner of one of the oldest sporting rivalries in human history. The cricket family contains only a few major nation teams. England and Australia form one of the fiercest rivalries in any sport. Every 2 years for the last 140 years, the two nations have sent their best cricketers to battle it out for the urn.
Anyway, it is a contest that has captured my attention for decades. Firstly, the game of cricket is a mesmerising one for those fully initiated into it. For those who aren't, cricket is about as enthralling as peeling dried paint off a wall. But it is important for the uninitiated, or unenchanted, to acknowledge that there must be something special about it. A bit like walking past a women's clothes shop. I can see people in there, doing something with a mixture of enthusiasm and frustration, but it has no appeal to me whatsoever. I see men tinkering under the hood of a car and I admire their patience and technique, but it has absolutely no appeal to me.
But if you're into it, its great, and that's what truly matters.
From here on in I assume the reader knows all about the Ashes, what it means, what it is about, who are involved and what is at stake.
After England's heavy defeat during their last visit to Australia, optimism for England retaining the urn was low. Arriving at Cardiff for the first test of the series, I was not expecting much fortune to go the way of England. Despite a decent summer of preparation against a tough New Zealand team, Australia always bring an extra level of ability into the arena.
Despite a test match lasting anything up to 5 long days of play, it is the minute moments of play that carry gargantuan significance. A dropped catch, a missed stumping, a fine edge not picked up by the umpires, a close run out, the batsman recalled to the crease after the umpire spots a no ball.
In the universe of cricket fate plays its hand at every moment, and weaves its tapestry as the minutes, the hours, the lunches and the teas play out in front of you. Joe Root, England's best batsman, is dropped on nought. He goes on to score a huge hundred, and drags England out of a precarious position. Destiny was out of his hands and in those, momentarily, of Australian keeper Haddin. Once the ball dropped and Root received his early escape, Root took advantage to maximum effect. The game was altered from that point and the story of the first test was altered forever.
Australia may well have cruised to victory had Root been caught out with England 46 for 4. As it was, their heads went down and they never scraped themselves back into the match.

My problem is I can't take my eyes or ears off the action. Its on the radio, its on the TV. Its on the computer, its on my phone. What's the score?
Only, life hasn't noticed. Life continues to tick by and expects me to play my usual role within it. Visits, days out or a day's work. Shopping, family responsibilities and dog walking, all still need to be attended to. Its not a hard life, but I'm trying to watch the cricket? Doesn't anyone understand?
On Saturday morning, the test coverage was due to start at 11am. I mowed the lawn, washed up, ate my breakfast, walked the dog and had a wash. At 1045am I turned on the TV to watch the pre-match punditry. All is well. Beefy and Athers are discussing the wicket, and reflecting on the play so far. I'm counting down to the first ball of the day. I am, quite literally, strapping fridge to sofa, and flicking my shoes off. I put my feet up. 1057am. The players come out onto the field. I'm set, seated, and I'm exactly where I want to be (being live at the test match would be, admittedly, much better).
"Ding Dong." That's the doorbell.
I look up, to see who is visiting at this time. It is the mother and father in law popping round. At this point the missus is still in bed. Its her day off and a lie in is her weekend activity of choice. I shout upstairs, "your mum's here."
"Put the kettle on will you, I'll be down in a minute."

"JESUS FUCKING-CHRIST-ALL-FUCKING MIGHTY. I JUST WANT TO WATCH THE FUCKING CRICKET."

.....to be continued.