Like many men who worship cricket he rhapsodised
about the crack of leather on willow and spent much of that summer trying to
convert me. It being necessary to attend daily, and stay until the stumps were
drawn, he was sensitive enough to keep me sweet by providing hampers and
champagne, by introducing me to his friends confident, in spite of their much
better looks, their more sparkling conversation, I’d not stray.
And knowing, in the coolness of the evening, I
knew no-one else so deliciously, efficiently capable of applying leather,
raising puckered weals on this Willow as did he.
No comments:
Post a Comment