Post a Comment On: Whirled Peas

Take a train to tiny speck of a station. Trek through the Sussex country-side on roads without sidewalks. Step back into the late 18th/early 19th century of railways. Hop aboard a choo-choo train. Stare at guy in dirty overalls shovelling coal into the firebox of ancient steam locomotive. Inhale coal gas fumes in moving train. Gawk at adverts for companies, brands and products long since extinct. Take shortcut across a meadow that turns out to be grazing lands. Watch woolly and shorn sheep gambol. Marvel that gambolling doesn't just happen in books. Wade through a slushy path to a delightful little patch of green. Curse at rain for threatening to deprive a day of its cricket.
Rejoice at the senior citizen players deciding to play anyway.
Rejoice even more at the clouds relenting and deciding to let the sun through.
Get picture taken with one of the finest commentators of all time.
Laze through a cricket match with a pint of bright Sussex ale. Laugh at random commentator who keeps quietly asking spectators and players the names of the batsmen and bowlers. Shoot the breeze about cricket obscuridae with genuine lovers of the game. Run back through aforementioned meadow to catch taxi and train back home. Feel like a character out of a chilled out Enid Blyton novel. Crash. Best. Sunday. Ever.