It is causing a bit of alarm in Fantasy Bob's household that, the Prime Minister's reticence notwithstanding, the return to active cricketing duties is getting nearer by the day. As he was delicately pushing his mask aside to spoon muesli into his mouth this morning, FB mentioned to Mrs FB his concern that the extended period of inaction might have diminished his skill levels unduly.
Mrs FB put on her sympathetic face. It lasted but a nano-second.
'What skill levels?' she forensically inquired.
FB was sure there was an answer to this question. But he couldn't quite call it to mind. He played for time, adopting a currently popular Parliamentary tactic.
'What do you mean, what skill levels?'
Mrs FB adroitly avoided the bait. Instead she said, 'Just how many wickets did you tell me you took last season?'
FB's ability to answer was inhibited by the spoonful of muesli in his mouth. Not to mention the mask.
Mrs FB therefore continued. 'And how many runs did you tell me you scored last season?' She paused and then, almost sotto voce, delivered her coup de grace, 'If any.'
FB's muesli turned to ashes. That parting shot was particularly hurtful. Incapable of being denied, but hurtful none the less.
'So, how can your skill levels have diminished?'
FB was reluctant to concede the point. 'But...'
'But me no buts,' she said in that but-me-no-buts tone of voice to which FB had become accustomed. 'It's the same every year. You moan on about how last season was your worst, your last, that you're past it, that the old magic's gone. Your knee's crocked, your back's gone, your shoulder's jiggered. Every year.'
'Well it's true,' FB managed to say.
'Maybe. But it's not about you. Somewhere in that club there is an 11 year old who has practised his leg spin all lockdown. He's waiting for you. Don't let him down.'
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