Maybe it is the sunshine. Maybe it is the deliciously slow progress or maybe it is just the unavoidable Englishness of every last drop.
Whatever the cause, cricket brings with it unrivalled, flawless eccentricity and tales as long and sumptuous as an afternoon tea.
What will follow here, in the weeks to come, is something of a Morris dance around our little corner of the cricketing compendium, where genuine ability rubs shoulders with mediocrity and bewilderment like middle-aged women at a Cliff Richard concert.
We shall start not at the beginning, nor the end, but somewhere in the middle. For no other reason than I thought it might be fun...
