In Bangalore, to be sure

The blood of my Irish ancestors is coursing through the veins today, will the guid Scots bluid clots.  Having listened to the ball-by-ball commentary live on the radio, then viewed the paltry 30 minutes of highlights afforded us by the BBC last night, the joys of the Irish defeat of the English, in the Cricket World Cup, cannot pass without comment.

Kevin O’Brien hammered the English attack for the fastest 100 ever in the World Cup, off only 50 balls (22 of which he didn’t score off); the team had the highest succesful run chase ever in the World Cup, surpassing England’s total of 328 with 5 balls to spare.  It was gripping stuff, and the best pictures are definitely on radio, where we can share the pain of the commentators and summarisers who turned up with their usual rose tinted glasses in true ‘England Expects’ mode, Geoffrey Boycott as usual and honourable and truthful exception.

I think the emerald green shirt, a relic from the previous World Cup four years ago when the Irish again inspired, will get a winter airing today, as I raise thanks to the McEvoys.  The quest for their roots must resume.

The day dawns under a mist with the late frosts of the previous night slowly receding.  It is a still day and The Grasshopper should get a chance to punish those legs later this morning.  For now it is time to prepare The Urchins for their day ahead, and to be sure they are ready for the school bus.  Meantime the trees are alive with birdsong; crocuses are almsot in bloom; and the daffodils are reaching higher with every passing day.  Springs draws inexorably closer as the long winter fades into memory.


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