In a reflective mood on the train home tonight, I spent some time dreaming of days bunked off school to go and watch cricket.
Fortunately I walked to school, straight past the train station and with direct trains to Canterbury and Tunbridge Wells, I went to quite a few early season Kent games before the term ended.
Other times I skipped up to London to go to the Oval and Lord’s. I wasn’t totally feral – I took my books with me! Sadly I was less able to explain why my nose was sunburnt when it had been cloudy all day in my home town.
My dearest memory, however, came not from a day at a cricket ground, as glorious as they were, but in the sixth form common room at school. A day in the middle of our A Level exams, when a big box was delivered by a furious-looking school secretary.
Inside were a tangle of red and white roses, a ticket for a Yorkshire v Lancashire match later in the summer and a note instructing me where to meet the sender outside the ground.
Even the most popular girls at school were left awestruck by the romance of this. Quite simply put, while they were running around with teenage boys, I was being wooed by someone who clearly had style.
I blush to admit this but I did not go. The single most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me and I churlishly left the sender standing there.
On the impossible chance he is reading this, I am so sorry. All the romance since is but a pale imitation of that tumble of roses and a ticket.