Classic Watches For Men

The poor bloke trying to flog old cricket books isn’t exactly doing a roaring trade. Then again, it’s rather hard to browse through the titles when his entire stock is draped in an enormous protective tarpaulin.

A few yards along – just past the decidedly incongruous ice cream van – the chaps manning the official Sussex County Cricket Club souvenir store (mobile version) are also twiddling their thumbs. Sun hat, anyone?

Fair enough, it was just a thought . . .

See, the problem is, it’s absolutely pelting down.

Well, actually, no, not pelting; if it were truly pelting, we’d have all packed up and gone home by now. No faffing or dithering required. Nice and simple.

What it’s doing instead is drizzling. Persistently, relentlessly, spirit-sappingly, soul-destroyingly drizzling. And in many ways that’s so much worse. Somehow drizzle still allows for hope, hence the hundreds of bafflingly optimistic spectators – some of them taking shelter in the beer tent (actually, loads of them taking shelter in the beer tent), others prepared simply to get saturated if an impromptu game of bat’n’ball keeps the kids amused – who are stubbornly refusing to call it a day.

It’s all wonderfully, quintessentially English, of course. And today, I’m afraid, it’s getting on my absolute wick.

For heaven’s sake, I’m thinking, just call it off, split the points, or whatever it is you cricketing people do in these situations. Then we can all go home and dry off, put an end to this wretched experience. I may be learning to like your sport, but believe me, I’m not liking it this much. This is just stupid.

We’re at Horsham in Sussex, by the way, where the home side – away from their usual base at Hove, for once – are meant to be playing Somerset in a Sunday afternoon Clydesdale Bank 40 Group A fixture.

But, as I say, the weather isn’t exactly conducive to cricket. Hence the delayed start. And all these soggy people aimlessly milling around. And the forlorn-looking stallholders. And hence the fact that the three of us – myself, my wife Julie and our daughter Emily – are huddled beneath a giant golfing umbrella, bearing the logo of the company that Julie doesn’t actually work for anymore on the grounds that they were gits, staring out rather pointlessly at the semi-covered pitch, where various unidentified bods are standing around, deep in conversation about, I don’t know, probably last night’s X Factor.

Personally, I didn’t even want to come. Not once I’d seen the forecast. Couldn’t see the point. But if you’re thinking to yourself (as I assume you must be by now), ‘Just go home, then, you blithering nincompoop!’ then let me explain the problem here: Julie and Emily don’t want to. Yes, my wife and daughter, don’t ask me why, would rather hold out, despite these laughably atrocious conditions, on the off-chance that this fixture still goes ahead.

drive from www.independent.co.uk