28 but still in the wrong age

With the rain dripping down outside but not thankfully at Headingly where play has recommenced - it is an English summer. Celebrating my birthday at the end of May, generally within reach of a bank holiday, some sun can usually be expected - but not on this dreary Monday. So instead I’ll celebrate by watching and writing, rather than walking and listening – as long as the earlier hail holds off in Yorkshire and the wickets keep falling. Although there are now only four left to deliver home victory and with the opposing Captain injured that is realistically three. But it can’t be long till tea and I’m not sure in this weather how long the light will last… If you are not from my land nor versed in our summer past time of cricket you will not appreciate my utterings – lest I remind you in short - I am of a different age to that which I inhabit. I’m writing on a wireless laptop in my lounge – with cable carried TV pictures and webcast commentary of the game that gives respite from my paradoxical life. My weekend has been one of Shakespearian tragedy at open-air theatres in the sun, of walking the West End, Embankment and Southbank to the crackle TMS on longwave – a literal contradiction to my surroundings - the cosmopolitan twenty-first century London. I pass through inconspicuous, camouflaged by the fashion about my body and the female at my side; the commuters, tourists, travellers and if there are any left locals, leave me unchallenged – they do not see nor sense my bewilderment at my predicament. I do not feel made for this age. And that gentlemen, is Tea.