Ashes

[Sweder]

Ah, no-one masters the art of the collapse quite like the England middle order.
Snatching defeat from the slack jaws of an odds-on draw is not something any old team can pull off.

The wee small hours can be ugly at the best of times.
My misery started when at 03:40 zulu I copped a phone call from an exhibitor looking for some fresh velcro to secure his drooping graphic panels. I pointed out, in sleepy yet measured tones, that a) EFI is a logistics company - we move boxes for a living - and b) seeing as how I was in Cape Town and he was in Singapore any help I might be able to offer might take a while. I considered inviting him to partake of simultaneous sex and travel but being the slave to customer service that I am I bit my tongue.

Awake (just) I reached for the remote, frantically hammering the mute button as the blurry image swam into focus. What? 7/ 79? For the love of all things holy . . .

Things, as D-Ream are wont to sing, can only get better . . .