Those who have had the misfortune of working alongside me will know for the past two weeks I’ve been battling away with two hands tied behind my back.
Actually that’s not quite right, it’s more two fingers strapped together - the result of a rather unfortunate run in (well, two in actual fact) with a moving lump of cork.
Cricket is a gentle sport, is it not?
Believe me, it’s not!
I’ve mentioned befors that even at the peak of my playing days (Garstang Second XI, 1996) I wasn’t much of a batsman.
Once as last man in I reached the bottom of the stairs, on the way from changing room to wicket, and overheard an order from the kitchen.
“Here, Doreen, that one’s in... start taking the cling film off the sandwiches.”
Flash forward 20 years and a dodgy bottom edge has got me off the mark and more importantly off the strike in a crucial Sunday showdown.
I wish it had stayed that way.
12 to win off six balls - part of me wanted to be a hero, the part that had forgotten just how bad at batting I’d been before a 17-year absence.
The bowler probably hadn’t been born the last time I wielded willow in anger, I’d show him.
I thought I saw the first one – seconds before feeling a huge crack on the finger.
The second I was sure I would connect - I did, with precisely the same finger - the helmet containing the worst of my expletives.
Still, at least it meant a new experience for me - and end to my 35 year record of never visiting A&E. I’d never had an x-ray either – two to tick off the list.
And I must say, the experience wasn’t bad - in and out in less than an hour and no fractures to boot.
The NHS gets some bad press but I was amazed by the service - and all, remember, for nothing.
Talking of nothing, at least I ended the day with a run.
And if you’re wondering about the third ball... the team lost by 12 runs.
It’s best if you fill in the blanks.