82 Not Out

The other day, Jo bought the kids a first cricket set – yellow plastic bat, purple stumps and bail, and two orange balls. It didn’t take long for one of the balls to end up on the garage roof, where it sat for a couple of days before it was blown off onto the wrong side of the hedge. Such is the way of children’s balls and neighbours gardens…

This morning I mentioned the ball to our neighbour, and he said he’d keep an eye out for it.

We’d had lunch, and I was stood at the sink when there was a knock on the door. Noah – who’s been on half-days at school this week, and goes to full days on Monday – ran to answer it. He opened the door to our 82-year-old neighbour, who held out a small orange ball, shifted it in his hand, and said with a twinkle in his eye, “I feel like an Australian fast bowler.”


I fancifully wish Australian fast bowlers had the physical prowess of an 82-year-old man. But I sincerely hope that when I am 82 I’ll have the presence of imagination of my neighbour…


dreaming dreams , good neighbours