Cautionary tales for middle-aged men

Three things not to do over a bank holiday weekend –

Don’t – however keen you are to watch as much cricket as possible before the season expires – watch village second XI cricket in the pouring rain (see below), otherwise you might end up like some character in a Victorian novel who catches a chill in chapter two and dies suddenly and offstage in chapter three.

Don’t – if your mother lives in a village two or three miles from where you live – decide that the best way to visit her for lunch is to walk there and back along a dusty bridleway, imagining that you’re W.H. Davies, picking Autumnal berries from the hedgerow as you go.  Not if the sunlight is fierce, and you’ve forgotten to wear a hat.  Otherwise you’ll give yourself sunstroke.

Don’t – if you have been making various amusing remarks about the diminutive stature of promising Leicestershire batsmen, and you yourself are six feet tall – go for a drink or two in your charming local pub, with its thatched roof, its exposed beams and its low ceilings.  Otherwise if – as usual – you aren’t looking where you’re going, you might bang your head on one of the low, exposed beams that you so much admire and half-concuss yourself.

If you do, however, do all of these things, you will spend your first day back at work having lost your voice, and with a splitting headache.

Woe, woe and thrice woe!

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