Ashes-to-Ashes

The boys are getting tense. The dull clashing of Foster's cans outside our hotel windows are preventing sleep for most our party except Pieterboy, who muttered something about it reminding him of a storm lashing the roof of his corrugated hut back in Africa. Strange boy but he's pretty ebullient about his ton the other day. I said to him and he laconically replied "What's ebullient?"

The boys don't seem to be taking it too badly that Stresscothick went doolally and had to be sent back to blighty in a straightjacket, ranting about the kangaroos in his box. Surely the prospect of three months in the sun and more totty than you shake your bat at must cheer up a chap.

Monty seems to be keeping his spirits up but seems to have too many posters of shagger Warne on his hotel room walls. I caught him the other day mimicking Warne's appeals in his mirror.

Flinty has taken to watching the sun going down from our team balcony, dodging the occasional Foster's can, empty, and floaters, half-eaten, muttering about the going down of the sun on a golden generation.

Still one has to keep one's spirits up and I've been reinforcing the boxes and thigh pads, maybe i'll start on the helmets tomorrow.