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Writing

9th November 2010

Early morning run. Flare nostrils. Fill up lungs. Feast on fresh air. To paraphrase David Coleman – open legs wide and show my class.

Speaking of which, the WAGS are being missed. Tension is mounting. Nerves are on edge. But relief is at hand; literally. Thank goodness English players on tour no longer share rooms. Think of the shame. The guilty looks over Sugar Puffs and toast. The unwillingness to make eye contact during squat thrusts.

“Just going to read in my room”.

Sure you are. Can’t wait to run fingers over your Longfellow anthology, I’ll bet.

Better post boundary riders behind square, Ricky; we’ve got the wristiest batsmen ever to leave Blighty.

Indoor training today. Indoor cricket training that is. Makes good sense. We escape the heat, can use the most sophisticated video analysis available, and there’s no chance of paparazzi getting a shot of us bowling underarm at Alistair. Don’t understand that myself. Australia won’t open with Hauritz will they?

Long day. Tired. To my room and the closest I get to sexual release on tour – following Natalie Imbruglia on twitter.

Tweet me, oh dark haired Goddess of Oz, tweet me like you’ve spent the last six months on board a submarine.

 

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