Right selection

The cafe. Kate, on her own. Me in a corner reading The Times. The veteran arrives, looking harrassed.

"Get us two nice strong coffees, Kate, please and" (in a whisper) "when the time comes it's his turn to pay. You all right, then, old son?" I say.

He grunts. "England. Bad team selection. Left out young Rashid when it was time to show you knew how well he played. Frightened team, you can see the tension. Tell me, summat. Who won the bloody Ashes, anyway? Us? Them? United States second eleven? Uncle Tom Whatsit and his mob? I thought we did."

"We are a better side than them," I go. "We put 'em in, get most of 'em out for a reasonable score and then bat like frightened rabbits. What's up?"

"I've just seen the telly but every time I get a glimpse of the boss class - Miller, Flower, Gibson, Morgan - they look frit as well. That's why I'm asking. The Aussies throw the Ashes away with bad everything; but it's us as looks underdogs and them that keep grinning. Lee, Clarke the captain, that Mitchell Whatsit; all laughing. He's the worst, that other left-armer. Chatting, laughing, giggling; what have they got to be so happy about. Sight of us batting, I suppose." He's is in a right state, the old lad.

"Is that lad coming?" It's Kate, behind the counter, a cup of his tea latte favourite in hand.

"No," says the old lad. "He won't be here for a while. He was 88 not out and going some when I slipped across the road. Could be his first proper hundred."

"It's my mate," says Kate. "She got a trick or two to sort out young sportsmen. Look at that footballer she went out with; England player now. What's that tennis player called - you know, tall, Irish and pretty eyes. A couple of days with her and he was twice the player."

The door flies open and it's the kid. "Where is she?" he wants to know.

"Doing a shift at the other shop," says Kate, quick, rather too quick. "Why, what's up?"

"She's supposed to be at the ground. I know I'm going to make at least 150 today and I say 'Come and watch' but no sign of her. I'll have to get back," he says, "we've declared. I got 111," he says and rushes out.

"Nice lad," says Kate.

"Where's she then?" I ask.

"Don't know," says Kate, looking sly. "There is a marathon runner around. Another nice lad. She can pick 'em."

"England can't," we say. "They know nothing about the game."