Ashes fever


To sleep, or not to sleep – that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in your job to suffer
The pangs and twitches of sleep deprivation,
Or to make sneers against a week of troubles
And, by the fifth day, end them. To sigh, to sleep,
To snore – and if you sleep you know you miss
The wickets and the overs and the runs
the Ashes bear you – ‘tis a consummation
Insincerely to be wished. To sleep, to dream
To dream, perchance to win. Ay, there’s the rub,
For on that sofa deep what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this Aussie soil,
Must give applause. There’s the respect
That makes parades at traffic lights.
For who would bear the whips and scorns again,
The media’s wrong, the punter’s contumely,
The pains of despised love, the fan’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his retirement make
from International cricket…

Grey skin, red eyes, the trains and buses are sprinkled with extras from a Romero movie: Commute of the Living Dead. Thank God we ended the first Test with a draw. And now for some much needed rest before the next cricket-lovers’ marathon….


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