So the carnival is over. Froomey has taken all before him in the land of stinky cheese and frogs’ legs and, 48 hours on, I feel this strange emptiness; a vacuum.
Tommo and Tanny and Scotty and Kate and Macka and Keeno and Phil and Paul. Not to mention the Skoda Tour Tracker. I’ve grown so accustomed to spending my nights (and early mornings) in their company over the last three weeks I’m just a little lost now. Cold turkey has never been one of my favoured dishes.
I guess I could take the opportunity to give my circadian rhythms a break and get some proper sleep. But where’s the fun in that? Just wish we weren’t getting so badly thrashed in the Ashes…hardly worth staying up for.