The opening bars of “Love Spreads” shock me awake before I silence the music with my flailing hand. For a moment, I am lost in a warm, dreamy fug that shields me from the day. Suddenly, exhaustion hits me. How many times did she wake me up last night? It isn’t her fault. The eczema rumbles under her skin like a Stone Roses bass line. 

Each time she cried, I was there in a flash: one hand absent-mindedly lathering her with cream, the other checking the score of the first winter Ashes Test – my pulse accelerating as the page refreshes. “Bugger it,” I mutter. My wife would be instantly propped on an elbow, her face etched with motherly concern. “What is it? Is she ok?” “Consecutive boundaries for Haddin. We need another wicket.”

She rolls her eyes before she goes back to sleep. The Aussies are 155-6. My mind is churning through the possibilities, as I feel at once awake and alive. Haddin and Johnson are in. “Get one of these,” I tell myself, “And we are into the tail.” I listen carefully. My little girl is fast asleep. I get out of bed and pad silently into the shower.

I reach a shallow crest on the A5: the Milton Keynes skyline appears in front of me, illuminated by iridescent yellow pockmarks. The black horizon is now an indifferent blue. It’s 7.28am, and England – from a position of dominance – are now on the rack. Maybe they won’t have it all their own way in this series after all. Two minutes to go until their day ends and mine begins. As usual, they have failed to bowl their quota of overs but – as Jim Maxwell intones in his laidback Aussie drawl – if Anderson delivers this last ball soon, they can fit in one more. 

I pull into the empty car park – making a dash for my usual slot near the front door – but make no move to leave the car. I’ll listen until stumps. Cook has wandered over to Anderson. What can they possibly be discussing, asks Maxwell. Nothing, says Vaughan. They are stalling. They just want to get off the field. They don’t want to play anymore today. I feel cheated. They don’t want to play. 

The crowd knows it too. The noise builds as Anderson finally approaches the crease, bowling the delivery outside off stump.  Haddin leaves it alone. A moment’s calm, then warm applause from the Aussies as the bails are lifted. Cook and his men have had their way. I turn off the engine and take a deep breath. The real world awaits.