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Writing

4th November 2010

Early morning breakfast bar. Injection of carbohydrates. Ready to take on the world! Grrr, me Tarzan, you Jane – or, more realistically in zoological terms, me Tarzan, you well groomed, high-status female chimp. Scratch that. Unpleasant thought. Stick with Edgar Rice Burrough’s flimsy grasp on reality.

On with the day!

First job. Need to buy fashionable shorts for the busy sportsman. To the local shopping mall. Wow, Australians certainly love nylon!

Ask locals for theatrical recommendations. Met with blank stares and poster for Monster Truck Rally. Rest of squad will be delighted. This is their Brecht, their Caucasian Chalk Circle, except with Scanias and Eddie Stobart livery.

Afternoon tactics meeting. We must, acclimatise, energise, exercise, prioritise. Should I suggest bowling straight and ruin coach’s rhyme scheme? Do it Timothy. Be the rebel. Be Che Guevara.

Not selected for first warm-up game. Coincidence?

Thought for the day: Australia have gone all Shakespearean, haven’t they? King besieged home and away, worthiness of heir apparent questioned, Merv Hughes exiled and David Boon fat enough to play Falstaff. But who will be their Bottom with so many candidates to choose from?

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