Rudderless dinghies wash up where they will, drawing attention to uncomfortable truths and interrupting the cricket. We’re on what my uncle called a sticky wicket, with chickens coming home to roost, but finding themselves corralled in an airless shed of dust and rusty wire, overseen by a rheumy-eyed nonagenarian with a white suit and a black bow tie. So, the chickens, too, are putting all their eggs in one basket, with thousand upon thousand trusting to flimsy craft and uncaring waves. We’re miles inland, but even here small boats break up at the edge of the village green, suspending play with their exhausted calls for aid. At the pavilion bar, the first pint’s pulled, and someone says batter, though the context is far from clear.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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