Sorry!

The cafe. Greg has joined the old guy, the lad and I and he is giggling the moment he enters the place.

As the drinks arrive, he stands up. "Mr.Corbett will now issue an apology to all the many fans of A F Flintoff, Esq, and look suitably embarrassed while he does so."

I don't stand up. I ignore the cat calls, the hisses, and the waitress who says "Ya, boo, sucks" very loudly. I say: "I make a mistake. It's what sports writers do. They make statements like 'Freddie should not play in this match because he is injured' and have to watch it all crash round their ears while everyone else on the planet goes 'I always knew he would win the match.' Wise after the event, I'd give it. I am sorry, though. I like Freddie. He has a touch of greatness and only Goughie in recent years has had that. Among all the fast bowlers, that is."

Greg goes: "Humble, grovelling apology accepted, right." He nods to the waitress who wanders back into the kitchen.

"Anyway," says the old guy, "one bowling spell does not a summer make and we don't know yet if he will be fit for Edgbaston or the rest of the series. Ted might still turn out to be right. I want to know how many pain killers he had that final morning, how he was the next morning. Andy Flower made a heavy point about Freddie not playing unless he was fully fit and I wonder if that was a warning."

The kid says: "I remember, when I was still at school, the England coach at the time saying that Neil Foster was fit enough to play for another two years and the day after that Test Foster retires."

The waitress comes back into the room, grinning and sits down next to Greg and - very ostentatiously I have to say - holds his hand.

"We're sort of engaged," she says. "I'm taking him home to meet my cat tonight."

"Yeah," says Greg. "See, romance is not dead." He looks straight across at me and winks.

I wonder. It's only yesterday he remembers some urgent business he has back in Sydney and tells me he is flying home tomorrow.

At least holiday romance is not yet dead.