Tresco is a No.

The England selectors are meeting as I type this post. No doubt they are wondering whether they should pluck Mark Ramprakash from the pension queue, move Jonathon Trott from the bench to the starting line-up or pull Robert Key out of the backwater that is championship cricket and subject him to trial by searchlight in the England team.

They no longer have to consider the problem caused by Marcus Trescothick, the most missed of all those who have fallen since 2005. Trescothick heard he might be wanted, found he was enthused by the idea and then, a couple of days ago, woke up sweating after a nightmare.

In his terrible dream he could not find his England kit while his team mates waited outside. He knew at that moment a return to international cricket was out of the question and announced that his retirement, caused by his mental problems, was still in place. Quite right too.

If you spend a quarter of a century with England as I did you make contact with players in the most unusual ways. He and I used to meet hotel corridors as he played football with his two-year-old girl. We often had the room next to the Trescothick family; something to do with the alphabet although we could never make out quite what.

"Now then, Tresco," I used to giggle, "watch out for those mighty tackles." He used to grin - a slow Somerset grin I always thought - and continue, with a proper dad's concern, to see that this budding female Beckham got the ball at her feet. Nice man, I used to think, to be so caring for his daughter in the middle of a Test.

So when he ran into the wretched issues over the time he spent away from the family I knew just what he was going through. Much as I admired his drives past the bowler, his ability to destroy an attack and those moments when he stood in the slips on the final day at Old Trafford in 2005 and begged the crowd to play their part in the attempt to beat the Aussies I realised he had other priorities.

I wondered briefly this week if a week away from Somerset, possibly with the family, for the final Test might be workable but if a man is having nightmares about his job he is as well to stand back and let other, less sensitive souls, step ahead in the queue.

Sensitive? A 33-year-old professional cricketer? Come on!

Yes. Let me tell you that Trescothick has another nightmare. His best pal died in a road accident when they were 17 and you may see him look upwards at times to dedicate a special innings to that lad.

Yes, Tresco, not for the first time you have made the right decision.