M-a-r-v-e-l-l-o-u-s

The Boxing Day test match began yesterday and with it my happy summer of cricket widowhood kicked off. Many women complain when all the boys want to do is veg in front of the telly with a six pack - and some beers (boom! boom!) - and watch the cricket. I sometimes wonder if these are the same women who invite themselves along on rugby road trips and then purse their lips when the blokes over-imbibe or the language gets fruity (or, let's face it, fruitier). For me each match represents five whole days of independence, of men knowing what to do with themselves while you're not around. You can gaily skip out the door without them howling, "What about me?! What am I supposed to do?!" (They never respond well to the opportunity to come bead or material shopping with you, poor misguided creatures.) Instead, they offer a vague grunt to your loving farewell and are only just hauling themselves out of a semi-comatose state when you step through the door eight hours later.

Winter is a whole other matter. A rugby match only lasts for two hours and they're usually on at night. Come July, Grumpy could finally win me round to a second TV set.