The Apartheid Museum: much more than good © Getty Images

Curse this tournament for its format. It’s been loved by everyone for its brevity and sharpness, and professionally it makes sense. But it has been so hectic that only yesterday did I go to a place in South Africa that isn’t Sandton or Centurion.

The trip to the Apartheid Museum was completely unplanned, organised on the hoof early(ish) in the morning. Obviously it was worth it, because if the tale you’re documenting is itself so remarkable then it is difficult to not do a good job. Fortunately, it is much more than good. Anyway the material, the documents, artefacts, photograps and audio-visual footage is so compelling and painstakingly brought together that had you put it in a four-walled, bare, windowless cell, it still would’ve been worth visiting. But the conceptual beauty of the interior, the way the building is designed and winds round the history, is almost as breathtaking as the learning it holds inside.

The birth of the museum is interesting, because not many museums in the world, surely, can claim to be the collateral cost of a casino. The museum was built for approximately 80 million rand and opened in 2001, the costs paid for by a private consortium that had bid for a licence to build a casino. One of the stipulations laid down by the government in 1995, when granting licences, was for bidders to demonstrate how they would attract tourism to help the economy: the consortium committed to building a museum and once the bid was accepted, land adjacent to the casino was provided. Since then the museum has been run by a board of trustees, relying mostly on donations and sponsorships.

It is a must-visit, and a very cleansing one, in the way places where history in all its good and ugliness is not hidden or distorted, but instead cherished, generally are.

Music often tells us more about a country than we imagine. Since landing, I’ve been itching to listen to some local sounds. Shamefully, I have managed to do so only very occasionally, though at least it has been on the radio, which brings with it the joyous, unmatched prospect of happening upon something beautiful randomly.

But even these brief encounters have confirmed one thing I kind of knew as soon as I arrived: beneath everything here, there is something, an unheard beat or rhythm. It isn’t obviously detectable or even easy to describe, but as with all good music, you feel it. Some of it comes in the way people talk, the way they move their heads, the way they walk, but it comes through.

	Pakistan fans in Centurion © Getty Images

Of the many things I remember about the 1992 World Cup final, one is the flags that Pakistani fans waved in the MCG crowd. There was the green star and crescent obviously but almost as prominent were the big, broad red, green and white ones of the MQM, a leading, still-young political party in Pakistan, and Karachi in particular, a party supported mainly by Muhajirs: those who had moved to Pakistan on Partition.

Over the years the flag has been seen at various Pakistan games, home and abroad, and I don’t recall seeing anything like it anywhere else: nationalism in sporting contests I can understand but ethnicity? Perhaps in South America at football games, where fans are an equally interesting sociological study, but that’s only a guess.

I’ve always wanted to meet the men who waved those flags and in South Africa I may have my chance. The flags were out at yesterday’s India-Pakistan game in Centurion, though completely overshadowed by those of India and Pakistan. I went down to one of the grass banks just as Suresh Raina was pretending we were all at the IPL.

	Such healthy living can sap the spirit of even the most well-meaning tourist © AFP

I have walked into a country-sized gym. I’ve always considered myself essentially a fit human being, even sporty. I jog, I go to the gym, I play cricket; even if the diet isn’t so well-controlled. But in Johannesburg I am a pygmy blimp of cholesterol and oil, fattened by a lifetime of sloth.

I noticed it first in the South African matches broadcast on TV, in shots of the crowd, a scarily large number of whom looked far too drunk to have ripped, lean biceps and such. Now I see it here, on streets, in stadiums, in malls. People look like they’ve walked fresh out of gyms, glowing, clean, healthy, athletic. Some days everyone looks like a professional sportsperson. It is intimidating, in the way that knowing someone will live longer and healthier than you can be. It is dispiriting also because you know it is a state achieved with great difficulty.

I ask locals about it and they laugh and assure me that there are South Africans unfit enough to think I am fit. I don’t doubt it, but maybe there aren’t as many as in other parts of the world. Some tell me I should go see other areas of Johannesburg. I presume that meant the press box at the Wanderers or Supersport Park, the only public space I have been to so far where I have seen locals without washboard stomachs.

The thing is, why wouldn’t you be? There is such freshness in the air here and if the sky is so blue and the temperature so pleasant (at this time of the year anyway) the only right and proper way to celebrate it, to enjoy it and to fully feel it, is to be outside doing something energetic. The minute you land here you can feel it. It doesn’t seem a constructed thing in any way, or imposed; just a natural, inevitable outcome of the land and climate. Australia I imagine to be much the same.

All this despite the amount of meat that is consumed here; urban Pakistan is big on meat and you can go for days in Lahore and Peshawar without so much as seeing a vegetable. But we’re vegetarians in front of this lot.

	People walk by pillars composing the South African flag on a Johannesburg street © AFP

I received at least 20 personal travel advisories before coming to Johannesburg. Don't get mugged (do I have a choice?), don't be shot (thanks for that one, I'll try my best), don't stick your hand out of a moving car (okay), don't walk around outside after sunset (vampires?), don't go to an ATM alone, don't wear a watch, leather, smart shoes, nice shirts and shoes (am I travelling to the 17th annual Hobo World Summit?).

It's quite a feat because, coming from Karachi, theoretically there aren't many places in the world where you can go to and not feel safe. It got to me initially and my first day here I spent eyeing everyone a little furtively before the guilt sank me: it's a terrible way to be in a new country, especially one where the sky can be as big and as beautiful and as pure as here.

This security thing is a strange business and I'm not sure it's something we'll ever come to terms with. I can live happily in Pakistan with the Taliban and suicide bombings and growing urban crime and yet be nervous coming into Johannesburg. It is not something that has to be understood anymore, it is something that just has to be lived with.

*************

International isolation plays all kinds of tricks with the mind. For various reasons, it hasn't been easy for Pakistanis to travel in recent years, myself included in that honourable and burgeoning list. This is thus my first trip outside South Asia for many years and despite having previously lived abroad, I have felt out of sync.

We say in Pakistan that Karachi is so cosmopolitan, bursting with all kinds of Pakistanis, and in terms of the rest of the country, it is. But compared to Dubai or Johannesburg, Karachi is one person cloned 15 million times over. And to mingle among this mass of culture, dialect, language, colour, to interact, can be disorienting at first if you're not used to it. Slights are seen where none are intended, words are misheard, intent can be misunderstood, gestures and the nuances of those gestures are easily overlooked.

The Indians left in the wee hours of the morning, the New Zealanders departed this morning, and the Sri Lankans have all gone to their respective homes. The hotel lobbies are bereft of any waiting journalists and fans. Conspicuous by their absence is the Indian family of four, always dressed in Sahara India blues, and the fanboy band of five who freaked out at the sight of any big Indian cricketer.

With time on my hand, I decided to go back one final time to Maitland Place, the popular and stand-out road which hosts the three first-class clubs - the Nondescripts Cricket Club, the Colombo Cricket Club, and the Sinhalese Sports Club. Or, as they're commonly known, the triple Cs - NCC, CCC and SSC. The three are unique in that they are all in one line and can be accessed rather easily. There's CCC on the west side of the road, NCC just across it, and SSC a six-hit away.

	Paul Farbrace's two-year stint as Sri Lanka's assistant coach has come to an end © Cricinfo Ltd

Rare is the occasion that an assistant coach accompanies a captain to a post-match press conference, but the occasion called for it. Paul Farbrace, who worked with Sri Lanka for two years, had just completed his last assignment.

At the presentation ceremony, Farbrace had been given a parting gift and a special mention. He received a loud cheer from spectators and players and got a firm handshake from Kumar Sangakkara and Percy Abeysekara, the die-hard Sri Lankan fan. Standing around as Sangakkara later thanked him for all his efforts, Farbrace was hugged by Tillakaratne Dilshan.

Farbrace, who assisted Trevor Bayliss, played an important role in making Sri Lanka a winning unit in world cricket, as Sangakkara reminded journalists later. “Paul has been very good with the little details, the tips he’s given the fast bowlers on improving their techniques has been important. He’s also helped batsmen score runs and there’s been a real sense of belonging with Paul. He’s been a good guy to have around and it’s sad that he’s leaving us at a critical time but we fully support him in whatever he does. We will really miss him.”

“I think this team has plenty of potential in all formats of the game,” said Farbrace while sitting next to Sangakkara in front of the media. “They’ve accomplished a lot and I’m very proud to have been associated with the Sri Lankan team.

Farbrace will be returning to England to take up the position of head coach of Kent, the county he left two years ago to undertake the Sri Lanka job.

	© Cricinfo Ltd

The sign, wearing the look of a hoarding that’s been through many monsoons and in need of a fresh coat of paint, still stood out: MAX Cricket Academy of Sri Lanka.

Having heard of Sri Lanka's premier grooming centre and seen it on a few between-innings television shows, I was pleased to find out it was in a corner of the R Premadasa Stadium’s compounds. The academy, which started in 2003, has been consistently producing players over the years. The idea, borrowed from the Australian model, was to have an institution which Sri Lanka Cricket (SLC) can use year round for development of talent.

Cricketers at the academy must be between 18-23 years. They are selected by the national selectors and sent here not only to hone and develop their talents, but also taught how to conduct themselves as cricketers. Aside from technical skills, the staff at the academy teaches aspiring cricketers about the benefits of nutrition, diet, etiquette and how to interact with the media. Certain batches have had the opportunity to learn computer studies. The academy also liaises with the national selectors about promising talent.

The premises includes a fully-equipped training center with high-quality turf nets, a gymnasium, seminar rooms and a dormitory.

Jerome Jayaratne, the head coach of the academy, who’s been associated with SLC for the last ten years, works with a staff of 25. He tells me that some of the academy’s graduates include Nuwan Kulasekara, Chamara Kapugedara, Upul Tharanga, Angelo Mathews and Dammika Prasad. The academy also sends staff to clinics across the country, aiming at developing the game at the districts and divisions. While it has no plans at the moment to send players overseas, the academy has hosted batches of youngsters from Nottinghamshire and Durham this year. The former Australia offspinner Ashley Mallett worked here during his stint as spin consultant.

Ishara Amerasinghe, the fast bowler who played one Test and a few ODIs for Sri Lanka, steps out of his car. He's had stints here and watches the Indians practice before going into the academy offices.

As the Indian team went through their net session, it was interesting to watch the local net bowlers helping out in practice. It's not everyday that one gets to bowl to international players. Venkatesh Prasad, India's bowling coach, gathered four enthusiasts and asked them what they bowl. There's a chinaman, a legspinner, and two eager fast bowlers. There is a language barrier but it is not a major hindrance and the bowlers are told to bowl to the Indians. A few try too hard, and are told by Prasad to focus on line and length rather than pace. One legspinner got some treatment from Suresh Raina, who looked very good as he timed the ball sweetly. The young lad grimaced every time Raina hammered him off the front foot.

This can only be a learning curve for the youngsters. Hopefully one day they will hit the big time.

	Rahul Dravid batted without any noticeable flourish, but that sturdiness and approach was unmistakable © AFP

There wasn’t much of a change in mood as the Indian team went about their practice today, given the news that Gautam Gambhir was out of the series. If it had affected them in any way, they didn’t show it. MS Dhoni, at a press conference, said the team had dealt with such losses before and had always stepped up.

Gambhir’s departure has deprived India of a player able to score quickly and bat through the innings. Gambhir is also an excellent player of spin. After Sachin Tendulkar at the top, the man most capable of playing the anchor role is Rahul Dravid.

Dravid was a surprise inclusion in the one-day side, but his need was justified. India’s middle order had their share of problems against the short ball, highlighted by several teams during the ICC World Twenty20, and the selectors called on someone reliable.

Virender Sehwag was not an option before the team was announced, Gambhir was today ruled out. Dravid will bat ahead of Suresh Raina, Yuvraj Singh, MS Dhoni and Yusuf Pathan, a quartet that provides India with big-hitting early, during the middle overs, and late on. On these pitches, against skillful slow bowlers who know more about choking than the average serial killer, whether setting or chasing, you need something special. Thilan Samaraweera showed that.

Dravid has always appeared to construct his innings in a thorough manner. He runs hard between the wickets, he drops the ball gently here and there, and manages to find the boundary ropes with deftness as opposed to power. His two most productive regions to collect boundaries when batting at the end of an innings are the arc between point and gully and the area behind square, just wide of short fine leg. Shots played there are mostly down to astute placement than belligerence.

A significant part of being a cricket journalist involves standing around. It can be a pleasure and a pain, depending on how you see it. Today a group of print and electronic media waited two hours for a five-minute spectacle. In the evening, 25 minutes of watching Rahul Dravid seemed too short.

Welcomed by a thunderous rainstorm, the Indian team arrived in Colombo for the Compaq Cup, which they will contest on September 11 and 12 with hopes of making the final. The players reached Sri Lanka in the afternoon and headed straight for the team hotel under strong security cover. Two hours before their arrival, the lobby at the Taj Samudra was abuzz in anticipation. It felt more like a G8 Summit. Rounds of coffee and tea were had. Jokes were cracked. Acquaintances were made and renewed.

The Indians arrived and out came the garlands. Shutters clicked. Cameras panned every inch of the players’ moves. The area between two elevators was chaotic. Hotel staff, guests and traveling fans clamoured to get a look. I was startled when a male fan came running toward his friends and actually jumped up and down showing off the pictures taken on his camera phone. The entire spectacle lasted but five minutes, and we’d been waiting for two hours; some from even before.

You know the Indians are around because security and the number of cameras is tripled. Some 35 journalists applied for media accreditation for a four-game tournament, out of which India are guaranteed only two. In the evening, an optional practice was attended by the entire Indian team and support staff. Where only a few nights ago I had been able to virtually stand a few feet from Shane Bond and watch him bowl, this evening all of us journalists were told to keep our distance.

	Future perfect for 19-year-old Dinesh Chandimal © Jamie Alter

Dinesh Chandimal has earned quite a reputation and is spoken of highly in discussions about the next generation of Sri Lankan players. A highly talented top-order batsman and wicketkeeper, Chandimal rose into prominence with a string of impressive performances on the local school cricket circuit. Since then he has hardly looked back, having a consistent run with Ananda College, being elevated to Sri Lanka's Under-19 vice-captaincy, and turning out for an SLC Development XI and Sri Lanka A - all before playing his first club match.

Coming from the small coastal town of Ambalangoda to Colombo was a necessary and seminal move forward in Chandimal’s career. Chandimal’s family, victims of the tsunami in 2004, could not sustain his sporting ambitions. He did not belong to a prosperous cricketing school. He had been rejected by Dharmasoka College’s Under-13 team due to an unorthodox bowling action. But he worked hard, kept his spirits high, churned out runs, and his fortunes took an upswing when he was drafted down from Dharmasoka in Ambalangoda to Ananda College for the 2006-07 season.

I took out time yesterday to go to the SSC and watch cricket. Well that’s what I'm on tour for, right?

But this wasn’t an international. This was Ten Sports Thunder versus Sri Lankan journalists, and it was like something out of Marcus Berkmann’s Zimmer Men.

The teams have arranged to play on the proper SSC pitch. This isn’t a practice ground. It’s the real deal. There are first-class umpires in proper attire. Players from both sides, in various shapes and sizes, are practicing their batting, bowling and fielding. You can immediately tell who’s played to a certain level and who hasn’t.

As I enter the dressing room, the mood is positively upbeat. The room is strewn with cricket gear. There’s music playing from a docking speaker system. The Ten Sports team is yakking away in clusters, a mile a minute. Some are discussing tactics, other cursing the heat. Danny Morrison, sitting with Hamish, a cameraman, is having a laugh. Gavin is waiting for the arrival of a set of T-shirts. The Mobitel mascot, a rather sad looking excuse for a bunny, is being suited up. Ranil Abeynaike is talking to a few production crew members. Mike Haysman is nowhere to be seen. Tony Greig is scheduled to be here for the post-match formalities. Kumar Dharmasena was supposed to umpire but he's not here.

The Sri Lankan journalists across in the other room look decidedly confident. Chaminda and Manoj, from Cricinfo’s local office, are discussing the batting order. Chaminda says he’ll go at No. 5, with Manoj just ahead. Word on the street is that the journalists have drafted in a few young club players. Hemant, who just landed from Ten’s base in Dubai yesterday, isn’t worried: “They’ve got club players, we’ve got Test players.”

When their job begins, that’s normally the cue for people to change channels, start typing furiously, or go get a coffee and cigarette. Their work is not always applauded but really should be. Rain or shine, their work goes on.

I’m talking about the groundstaff who have been kept busy since 3.15 this afternoon at the R Premadasa Stadium in Colombo. A 20-minute downpour then forced them into action and they’ve been busy since. At 4.54 a three-minute passing shower lashed across the ground as the group of roughly 100 young men was starting to remove covers off the outfield.

This time I tried observing them as attentively as possible. A key part of their job is anticipation and for the most part on this short tour I’ve noticed the groundstaff at venues is very good at knowing when a shower is approaching. This group never for a second lost enthusiasm for what is a high-pressure and strenuous job. Running through rain in slippery conditions dragging heavy covers – 12 of them, estimated at 100 feet by 40 feet - is no easy task but these guys go at wholeheartedly.

They whoop, they shout, they curse, they laugh, they move at great speed lugging those massive tarps. Some fall, some choose to slide across the sheets and into puddles of water, some back-slap, some high-five as one of them trips. Teamwork is so crucial in this job. All the while they are hooted at by two groups of spectators that have assembled hours before the start of play. That’s just not on, and downright disrespectful.

These chaps need a good pat on the back for their efforts. They really do a brilliant job out there, at work against the elements. They get soaked and run the risk of getting ill. Their wages probably aren’t too good either. You rarely hear players or administrators thanking them. The drainage facilities in this part of the world aren’t that good so these chaps, often teenagers, have to be darn good at what they do. Their efforts often ensure minimal or no damage is caused to the ground so play can resume quickly or start on time.

So the next time rain interrupts play, before you switch to MTV or VH1 or put on the kettle, spare a thought for these chaps.

	Almost there! Jesse Ryder's homage to Richard Hadlee nears completion © AFP

Touring in foreign countries where security limits your mobility to hotel premises pushes the thresholds of boredom. Perhaps in homage to New Zealand stars of yesteryear, such as Richard Hadlee and Jeremy Coney, or perhaps because the enchantment of being cooped up in their hotel rooms with PSPs has worn off, Martin Guptill and Jesse Ryder have decided to grow moustaches.

Ryder’s has been slowly gaining growth over the last week or so but Guptill’s is a newer endeavour. The two players were seen showing off their best efforts at the first Twenty20 international.

It reminded me of one of the episodes in Family Guy, where Peter Griffin, the lead character, decides to grow a moustache. I won’t say more …

* * *

	Prasanna Jayawardene's white Ssang Yong Rexton © Cricinfo Ltd

When I was younger, I had this image of Aravinda de Silva – ‘Mad Max’ himself, the playboy of Sri Lankan cricket – harrying down one of Colombo’s wide roads in a flashy sports car. Reading and hearing about how fast cars were de Silva’s passion and how women swooned over him, I crafted a picture of a debonair lifestyle, of high-speed cruises down one of Colombo’s wide roads.

I haven’t seen that on either of my tours to Sri Lanka, and probably won’t, given the security and roadblocks. Last summer, while in a tuk-tuk, I was nearly run over by Kumar Sangakkara’s black 4x4 as he tried to dodge another tuk-tuk on his right, on the outskirts of Colombo.

But what is unmistakable is how popular sports cars and SUVs are here in Colombo, and how many Sri Lankan cricketers drive them. I spotted Mahela Jayawardene and his wife Christina in a big Jeep 4x4 and Sanath Jayasuriya in a Ford Explorer. Ajantha Mendis and Muttiah Muralitharan drive SUVs. Chamara Kapugedera got out of one at the SSC. Sachin Tendulkar’s Ferrari fixation is so yesterday. Big is best in Sri Lanka.

And it’s not just cricketers or politicians. I saw two monks get out of a huge Toyota pick-up truck. Monks! Just walking down Galle Road you see great hulking 4x4s and SUVs as frequently as tuk-tuks. Jeep Grand Cherokees, Toyota Fortuners and RAV-4s and Prados, Nissan X-trails, Land Rover Discovery 3s, you name it and Colombo has them.

	Tillakaratne Dilshan allowed the crowd to vent any pent-up frustrations © Getty Images

There had been a degree of trepidation, for those of us who were not here for the last Twenty20 at the R Premadasa Stadium, as to how security would be handled for tonight’s game. I had read in the web versions of the Island and Daily Mirror, and later been told first hand by local reporters, about just over three weeks ago, policemen baton-charged spectators outside the gates of the venue.

On that unfortunate evening, the main gates had been closed as security guards began individual checks on ticket-holding spectators after forcing them into a small side entrance. As men, women and children were jostled and pinned against steel blockades, anxiety swelled and in a panic police offers manning the gates resorted to assault some spectators.

The issue did not go down well in the local papers. The Daily Mirror accused the security contingent of not only failing to do their job but “allowed arrangements to descend into what has been described as a total shambles”.

On Monday, the day after the Test series finished, Sri Lanka Cricket’s security unit held a press conference at the board headquarters spelling out the security arrangements. The aim was to ensure spectator safety and comfort for the two Twenty20s and the tri-series to be held at the Premadasa. The security and traffic plans were outlined and senior bigwigs from Colombo’s police force vowed not to allow such an incident to happen, while SLC apologised to the crowd after three weeks.

	Shane Bond is just one solid performance away from making the world smile with him © AFP

When visible to the media and fans, Shane Bond has worn the same expression on his face ever since he landed in Colombo from Chennai. It’s been virtually blank, not a trace of excitement or anticipation or nervousness of an international comeback. What thoughts have rattled around his head since he quit the ICL, was handed a New Zealand Cricket contract, was named back in the A and one-day teams, what he felt when he picked up a niggle in India after one over, what the emotions were when he joined up with New Zealand here in Sri Lanka, only Bond knows. And he's hardly shown it.

But tonight I thought I saw him smile.

Bond’s final net session the night before his first international appearance since November 2007 gave little indication to what may be going on inside his head. Bond didn’t speak much as New Zealand began their training under lights at the Premadasa, warming up by himself next to the green railing that runs around the ground. He then joined Daniel Vettori, Jeetan Patel and Daryl Tuffey for leg stretches and conditioning exercises, which included hopping on one leg and working with a fitness ball. A few words were spoken with Vettori and Tuffey, that’s it. The drill went on for about 15 minutes. No real emotion on Bond’s face.

After a couple swigs of water, Bond joined a few others for fielding and catching practice. After a good 25 minutes of hard work, in which he judged and took some skiers, once even tumbling to the ground, Bond again had some water and then slowly made his way to the nets.

He stood with Tuffey and Jacob Oram watching the McCullum brothers, Jesse Ryder and Kyle Mills bat. Then the three men were summoned to the last net on the left, where Ross Taylor was batting. The local net bowlers stepped back as Bond marked out his run-up. “Shane Bond, Shane Bond!” cried a few young boys near the boundary rope. There was no reaction.

	The pub quiz scoreboard © Gavin Scovell

He’s standing in the centre of a pub, holding aloft a trophy in front of a crowd of over a hundred, which includes his New Zealand team-mates, coach Andy Moles, the team support staff, Mahela Jayawardene, Ian Bishop, and Danny Morrison.

Given the tour Guptill and New Zealand have had so far, the moment calls for massive cheer all around, and whoops and whistles from his New Zealand team-mates. The setting is the Cheers pub in the basement of the Cinnamon Grand hotel in Colombo, and Guptill’s team, Pole City, has just won a quiz night after staving off last week’s champions, this time around aptly called Beauties & the Beasts, which comprises Jayawardene, his wife Christine, Jehan Mubarak, and the Sri Lankan support staff including assistant coach Paul Farbrace, team trainer Jade Roberts, and physiotherapist Tommy Simsek, and another couple.

“Standby, five-five, seven-seven,” cracks Gavin.

I stare intently at the 22 consoles in front of me to try and spot which one moved when, but I can’t keep up. This is hard work.

I’m sitting inside the Ten Sports production room in the bottom floor of a nondescript green structure at the SSC. It’s a dark room, illuminated by a few flickering tube lights. There are large black coffins all around, used to ship the expensive equipment, and consoles and laptops and other beeping gadgets all around. For a second I recall one of those wire-tapping FBI go-downs that Hollywood pictures have implanted into our mindset.

Gavin, the director, sits in the far left corner. There are 22 screens in front of Gavin, who tells me that’s a small number. There can be as many as 45 when it’s a big series and India are involved. The screens flash almost every conceivable view the cameramen can cover, including the commentators’ box, the dressing rooms, the spectators, the third umpire’s cabin, the press box, and the various entry and exit points. One of the camera constantly provides a panoramic view of the ground and is the one which the team scorecards and summaries are displayed.

What a day. Opened my inbox to hear from a friend on Facebook that Shashi Tharoor, the former UN Under-Secretary to Kofi Annan and a prominent Indian diplomat, had Tweeted about me. Then I watch Daniel Vettori make history at the SSC. After the day’s play, I stand in a guard’s booth fit for two with seven security guards and a machine gun, waiting for the rain to stop. To top it all off, my evening ends with a taxi driver encouraging me to become an actor because, with my dual languages, Arnold Schwarzenegger may one day help me bridge the gap between Hollywood and Bollywood.

True story.

I attend the post-match pressers and make my way to the main gate of the SSC to get my taxi. He calls to say he’s stuck in traffic. It starts to rain. The guard at the gate beckons me to stand in his cabin and stay dry. Thing is, there are already six rather large Devcon security guards and another soldier in commies with a machine gun inside. I hesitate but the rain is getting heavier and I have a laptop, recorder and an ipod in my bag.

“Please, please come,” yells one of the Devcon – that’s like a name out of Robocop. He and another guard make way but we’re really struggling to fit in, especially me with my bag. It’s a tight squeeze if ever I saw one, and I don’t do well with machine guns in my face.

So what do you do in such situations? Well of course, you talk cricket! We don’t get very far because none of them speak English, but settle on the fact that Muttiah Muralitharan is great and that Mahela Jayawardene really gave it to the Kiwis. I keep one eye trained on that machine gun the entire while.

My taxi comes to the wrong gate and I see the driver pulling in, so I excuse myself from the Devcon gang and run after the car. He doesn’t see me in the drizzle and dark, so he heads toward the enclosure inside. Finally I catch him, by this time pretty soaked, and we’re off to the hotel. Barely two minutes into the conversation – about the weather - he says I don’t speak like a foreigner.

Its 8 in the evening and I just got back from the most amazing stroll on Galle Face Green, a sea-facing promenade along the longest road in Colombo, Galle Road (which is more a boulevard actually). I’d been recommended by an old college friend to saunter down the promenade when I was here last year, but didn’t get the chance. It was definitely worth it - despite having my left foot run over by a Honda Accord - and I plan to do it again. Its one of Colombo's must-see attractions.

The view of the beach from my hotel window had been tempting me since yesterday and this evening I decided to have a walk The skyline at either ends of the beach makes for stunning viewing. Right from the Ceylon Continental and Galadari hotels, situated at the top of Colombo’s business district, to the Doric-column Old Parliament Building – now the Presidential Secretariat - and the looming World Trade Center (WTC), down to the wonderful and very colonial Galle Fort Hotel at the other end, it is a serene stretch. All the more as the sun sets and the lights from the WTC and Presidential Secretariat light up the evening and the moon sprinkles itself on the Indian Ocean.

Does anyone know how I can get the medley of Jerusalem, Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory out of my head? It must have been played a few times a day, every day, during this series. Yesterday it was on repeat as soon as Michael Hussey got out. And today it won’t leave my mind. What does “weave thy diadem” mean? That’s more confusing than Australia’s selections. Please, make the music stop. Losing the Ashes is nothing compared to this.

While it wasn’t such fun to watch the run-outs or the collapse at the end, it was special to feel the emotion of a crowd that likes nothing better than thumping Australia. The series was gripping throughout even though the teams were not that great, but the Ashes still remains the most special contest in cricket – at least to two countries.

Wound down at a dinner with some very polite and distinguished England fans. None of them teased. Most of them will be back in Australia in 18 months, so must remember to match their manners when we’re at the SCG in the first week of 2011.

Airport officials the world over must have told my story a couple times. I’m white. I have an Indian passport.

Yeah, go ahead. Read it again. White. Indian.

I’ve had some pretty interesting – and thoroughly frustrating – incidents at airports in and outside of India, often having to explain the whole story of why I have an Indian passport and even once been asked to show additional documents to prove my passport wasn’t a phony.

Seriously?

The last time I flew to Colombo from Chennai the lady behind the immigration counter took one look at my passport and burst out laughing, then waved to another lady standing behind an empty counter and called her over. After showing her my passport they both had a laugh. Now I don’t speak Tamil but I know when the joke’s on me.

Anyway, this time when I get to the immigration counter in Bangalore there is not much of a line to stand in and I approach the moustached man behind the counter, extending my passport, ticket and immigration form with a smile. He looks at the ticket first, then the immigration form. I love this part.

He takes it, raises an eyebrow over the Republic of India printed on the navy blue cover, flips it open, and …

“Sir, this says Indian citizenship on it.”

”Yes sir, long story.”

“You are Indian?”

I nod.

“Where you stay?”

“In Bangalore, for the last three years.”

“Kannada gothilla?”

“No sir, I don’t speak Kannada. Just Hindi.”

He looks up at me and then back to the passport and repeats the process.

“But how?”

“Well my father is Indian, I was born here, grew up here.”

“Anglo-Indian?”

“No, no. It’s complicated.” I flash a polite smile.

He scans the passport one last time, eyes lingering on the picture and the details.

“Hmm, very interesting. Not seen like this before! Okay, enjoy!”

And I’m through.

* * *

An amazing thing happened on the way home last night. People who hadn’t been at The Oval were talking about the cricket. As they went to their parties in Hackney and the nightclubs of Camden they were asking questions of friends and strangers on the Tube. “What’s the score?” “England are winning.” “Australia will find a way to draw this.” “How could Ponting not pick a spinner?” One guy had watched it all day at home, others had relied on the radio or internet for updates.

In my experience, this sort of public transport chit-chat is usually limited to those heading home in team colours or with ticket badges hanging from their jackets. Call it fickle or joining the bandwagon, but as a long-term watcher it was great to hear the more “normal” people being interested in a Test. Maybe it will last a day, or another 466 runs, or perhaps it will help make the game a lasting favourite here, regardless of whether England win or lose in the future.

By the way, the Australians prayers for rain haven’t been answered. It’s beautifully sunny in south London and the only white marks in the sky are the trails from the planes heading in and out of Heathrow.

The Tubes heading south on the Northern Line are crammed full of excitement and there’s a queue from Oval station to the ground. There must be something exciting happening. Oh, that’s right, England are about to win the Ashes. They like cricket again here.

Still, most of the locals remain pessimistic. Excited, but horribly nervous. Adelaide 2006-07 has been mentioned a couple of times by supporters this morning. Stuart Broad was cautious talking last night and the papers haven’t claimed the win. In Australia they have reported the loss.

The reality is if England get another 100 runs today they will be safe. How the series has swung. Not the best time to be an Australian over here. Fortunately we’re off to Scotland on Wednesday.

Lord’s has a resident cat and now The Oval is home to a fox. Not Graeme ‘Foxy’ Fowler, the former England, Lancashire and Durham batsman, but a living Basil Brush who popped in to check on the field after stumps on the opening day. It’s basically impossible to get on the playing surface unless you are wearing the fluorescent green vests of the security staff - unless you’re a fox.

With the covers on, the animal trotted out to guard the square and lay down near the practice pitches. The security men spotted the animal and let him be. Apparently he visited early in the morning as well. The Oval is almost in the centre of London so spotting any animal that is not a pigeon is rare, although some quick brown foxes have somehow managed to retain a presence in the suburbs.

There were a few groans around England training today but not enough pain for them to turn into legitimate injury scares. Well, not yet, anyway. First to go down was the timid looking, tough talking Stuart Broad, who tumbled awkwardly while taking a catch during fielding practice. He was helped up with a sore side and later bowled in the nets, looking more puffed than hurt when he walked up the pavilion steps at the end of the session.

The Oval was a noisy place but even all the pre-match construction and mowing was usurped when Paul Collingwood shouted the scream either of a batsman who had got out to a truly ridiculous shot or a person in serious pain. Collingwood was taking slip catches when one clipped a sore finger on his left hand and prompted the yell. He took a couple more before calling off the drill and walking away analysing the digit, but there were no anxious group huddles like there have been before the toss in the previous two Tests. Things were much quieter in the Australian camp.

Hambledon Cricket Club “circa 1750”, according to the club signs, is a couple of miles from the rural Hampshire village and a bit tricky to find, mainly because the directions tend to come at the turn-off and we’re too busy avoiding the on-coming traffic to notice. Sadly, there’s no game on the dome-shaped field when we arrive and the clubhouse windows are boarded off, preventing a peek at any historic memorabilia from an area which has had a significant impact on the modern game. Or so I thought.

A pint at The Bat and Ball Inn was also on the to-do list but we couldn’t find it along the narrow lanes, even though everyone says it’s right beside the ground. No reason to feel suspicious: we were miles from nowhere and there was a cricket club there called Hambledon. It couldn’t be anywhere else, could it? A day after the trip I learn there are two clubs in Hambledon and we’ve picked the wrong one. (Please don’t tell my wife, the driver, about this. She didn’t even want to go to this ground.)

Back in the 18th century the original club was a mix of well-off locals and rich visitors, and its legacy was a hefty contribution to the game’s rules. A straight bat was developed here to replace the curled ones, the width of the bat was restricted to four-and-a-quarter inches and soon they were calling for a third stump to sit in the middle. What their modern team-mates don’t do is give prominent directions to their ground.

There were four of us in the car and nobody spotted the historic site, unlike the Romsey Abbey and Winchester Cathedral, stubborn and spectacular buildings which dominate their towns in beautiful parts of the county. On the way there was a morning with Thomas the Tank Engine and some of his friends. We called it a training session.

I first started looking for Albert Trott’s grave in 2001. I’d read a story about Trott, the Test player from the late 1800s, by the Age’s Peter Hanlon and learned he was buried in Willesden, a suburb just up the road from where I lived during my three years in London.

Trott interested me for a few reasons: he played for both Australia and England, hit a six over the pavilion at Lord’s, and killed himself, aged 41, due to ill health. He seemed like a pretty interesting guy, so during spare hours I went searching for him. I didn’t find him, but kept finding out about him.

David Frith wrote about Trott in his book By His Own Hand and the name comes up regularly in historical accounts of the game. His player profile contains many of his deeds, ranging from the unmatched to the freaky. He would have been incredible to watch in any team or era.

Having gone to a few gravesites in Willesden previously, I tried another venue on this trip: Paddington Cemetery in Willesden Lane, just down from where Trott died in Denbigh Street. Hanlon’s story gave the only tips. “A simple, white headstone – ‘A.E.Trott 1873-1914, a great cricketer, Australia, Middlesex, England.’” For 80 years the grave was unmarked, but the county eventually put up a reminder for their former player.

Paddington Cemetery a beautiful place to rest, there’s a slight hill, an old chapel and gravestones both modern and crumbling. For this assignment I took my daughter and an English friend for help, but none of us could spot the headstone. There were memorials for doctors and chemists and parents of big families and new babies, but not one (that we could see) for a former Test cricketer.

All of us have looked for things before and not found them, and it may not even be the correct venue for Trott-spotting. Oh well. The search, which is increasingly enjoyable, failed again. It will re-start in 2013.

Day trips are almost impossible on tour but thanks to a three-day Test it was possible to escape Leeds for a couple of hours and drive through the North York Moors on the way to Whitby, a small Yorkshire fishing and holiday village. It’s the home of Captain Cook – no, not the opener Alastair, but James, the explorer who bumped into Australia in 1770.

At primary schools in Australia Cook was a central figure in geography and history lessons, and his name and deeds live on along Australia’s east coast. In Queensland he was the first white man to discover, among many other things, the Town of 1770, the Glass House Mountains and the Endeavour River in Cooktown, north of Cairns. His childhood cottage was even relocated to Melbourne’s Fitzroy Gardens, so it was great fun being in his town.

It’s a beautiful place too, overlooked by the spectacular ruins of St Hilda’s Abbey, 199 steps above the town, and divided by a river that reaches into the sea. The summer sun made it even more inviting, although it wasn’t just the crowded carparks near the beach that prevented a swim. Cook preferred the water but the land west of the town is also impressive.

The North York Moors were covered in heather on the peaks of their rounded hills. The harsh landscape slows the tourist traffic as everyone stares out the window, wondering how the scenery changed so quickly. Halfway down the hills there are lush green fields and ideal grazing land, but the top is rough and windswept. On the drive back to Leeds there were more idyllic rural scenes, enchanting fields and a stray wasp that apparently lodged in the shirt of my driver. He over-reacted by Australian standards, but those things do sting a bit. James Anderson probably would have squealed like that as well.

My old club in West Yorkshire is having a crisis, although something always seems to be going wrong. If it isn’t someone leaving the gate open so the horse can run through the village, it is trucks dumping soil while ruining the neighbouring football pitch, or rabbits eating the grass on the wicket. It’s always fun to get updates.

On Saturday only nine guys turned up for the first team, they did well to hold the opposition to about 160 and were all out for 40. My host top scored and the tale of the game was told in two of the village’s three local pubs. It was a gloomy night until I brightened things up by telling them about my day, and how Australia were five wickets from levelling the Ashes after only two days at Headingely. That helped them brighten up after their losing streak extended to seven.

The club has changed a lot since I played a handful of games over two seasons back in 2002 and 2003. When I popped in for a visit last week I thought I was in the wrong place. The ground was flat and there were covers and a scoreboard. When I was here last the fielder at deep midwicket was unable to see the stumps due to the slope. If a catch went that way everyone else would start yelling to let the person know the ball was coming. It was a pretty safe shot.

At other times in the year the game has to be stopped for 10 minutes because the sun is in the batsman’s eyes - it’s one of the few east to west pitches. They were good times. Next year the club is getting even more on-field improvements. Now all they need to do is stop losing.

The players’ viewing balcony is right next to the press box at Headingley and it was fascinating to watch Michael Hussey’s high-energy pre-batting routine. It can’t be much fun sitting next to him because just when everything goes quiet he springs up and runs on the spot, crunching his spikes on the cement.

After a burst of callisthenics and stretching he would sit back down and watch for a while until his mind told him he had been still for long enough. Cue more jumping, body twisting and focusing, a noisy set of exercises which continued until he was called to bat. Hussey is an intense player and his adrenal glands must work overtime with the stress shooting through his body.

He has been dismissed early a couple of times in this series and his desire to be alert for the first ball was clear. When Shane Watson was out he crackled down the steps and defended his opening delivery, appearing in control until he was lbw to a Stuart Broad inswinger from around the wicket. The dressing room is on the level below the balcony and once Hussey entered it there were no more trips upstairs.

	Ricky Ponting was given 500 shares of Altrincham FC for attending the friendly © Getty Images

The Australian squad split up last night, with half the team attending a civic reception in Leeds and five of them going to watch Altrincham FC play a Manchester United XI selection in Cheshire. Ricky Ponting, Peter Siddle, Stuart Clark, Michael Hussey and Shane Watson were the biggest names at the game, which they attended because Geoff Goodwin, the Conference club’s chairman, doubles as their bus driver in England.

Ponting was given 500 shares in the club for attending the friendly, matching the allocation handed out to Jason Gillespie and Adam Gilchrist four years ago. Manchester United’s reserves won 2-0 while the first team was preparing to play Valencia on Wednesday night.

Back in Leeds, Mitchell Johnson was one of the guests of honour in a reception hosted by the lord mayor Judith Elliott. Part of the festivities included Johnson and Phil Hughes batting against a computer-generated bowler who delivered from a big screen. A bit like playing Wii. Both missed at every attempt but when the mayor, a grandmother, stepped up she blasted two sixes from three balls before retiring to cheers from the small crowd.

Leeds is just as rainy as Birmingham and would feel exactly the same if I hadn’t used the city as a second home during three years in England. Arriving here is very calming because last night I was out for dinner and for half a minute actually didn’t know where I was. Before you start emailing WADA, it happens to me once every tour, it was early in the night and I was on my second drink. Still, as I looked at the restaurant wall I wasn’t sure whether I was in Brisbane, Barbados or Budapest.

Then someone started shouting “You all live in a convict colony” and I couldn’t be anywhere else but Birmingham. That song tops the West Midlands charts this week. It’s so hypnotic the city has been on theft watch every time someone in a yellow shirt goes near a loaf of bread. Anyway, my favourite lost moment occurred to a work mate who was so disoriented on a flight he had to ask the steward where the plane was going. So mine wasn’t bad at all.

Today our train went straight to Leeds, which is comfortable and familiar, grimier in some parts and unfamiliar in others. There’s Elland Road, which once staged Champions League matches, and over there is Majestyk nightclub, where the Leeds United players would sometimes find trouble.

Eight years ago I watched the hundreds of Ricky Ponting and Damien Martyn at Headingley before escaping back to London to work on the final day, which was made famous by Mark Butcher. In between those centuries I’d debuted for a small club in West Yorkshire, doing nothing on the field, but enough off it to be invited back three or four times a year for more afternoons of fielding on molehills.

Before leaving Birmingham I spotted poor Stuart Clark, who can’t escape carrying drinks on this tour. Just before the team bus left Edgbaston he was on a coffee run. The only difference this time was his partner wasn’t Andrew McDonald or Brett Lee or Phillip Hughes, but Ponting. Surely someone will be running Clark drinks when the third Test starts on Friday.

I was starting to get lost in the city centre this morning when a couple from Stoke pointed me the right way. They were excited about seeing some play after particularly poor luck with the weather. Initially they had tickets to the first four days, but gave away their day-two seats to a friend. That was a bad choice, with seven Australian wickets going before lunch and England in charge throughout. On their other visits to Edgbaston they not only got soaked, but on the opening afternoon saw their team’s worst 30 overs of the match.

They haven’t had a lot of luck with their cricket-watching careers, which are pretty committed. A few years ago their Indian holiday took in a Mumbai Test until the dates were changed, leaving them to attend an ODI instead. Then in 2006-07 they joined thousands of England supporters flying into Melbourne for Christmas and the Boxing Day Test. The only problem on that trip was Australia had already won the first three games and the series.

They’re the sort of experiences that actually galvanises England fans. If the hosts win this series the couple will be off to Australia late next year as well.

Tired of writing and thinking about rain. Not yet weary of all the soggy costumes. Today was an incredible fancy dress day at Edgbaston, starting with a gaggle of Dame Ednas in orange dresses, clutching a gladioli in one hand and a pint cup in the other. Classy. The weather was similar to Dame Edna’s home in Melbourne’s Moonee Ponds, too. Some of the Fantatics were definitely homesick.

A royal group of Kings of Spain (or was it spin?) were hoping the rain would fall mainly on the plain, but instead it dropped heavily on the outfield, which was finally ruled until after an inspection at 2.30pm. A two-man horse and its jockey then stayed on for a long drink.

Pick-up games out the back were popular for soaked supporters. One involved a Fred Flintstone bowling to a member of the Barmy Army who seemed to have been imbibing all week, or maybe longer. Holding on to the wheelie-bin wickets with one hand, he wobbled like Phillip Hughes in the opening two Tests – and managed to stay a bit longer. Sadly, it was the most entertaining innings of the day.

The players escaped their dressing-room cards, darts and reading to have a hit in the indoor nets and a run in the gym. Brett Lee delivered a few balls, ranging between 50 and 80% of his capacity in his recovery from a rib injury. Hopefully he’s not the only one who gets a run outside on Sunday.

After a week in Cardiff and another at Lord’s, the first day in Edgbaston was a bit of a let down. The early rain caused the biggest disappointment of the tour, delaying the start until 5pm, when the game began in brilliant sunshine. However, the setting is also a poor cousin to the previous two venues, a hotchpotch of stands without much charm, making it feel more like a lower division football stadium than an international cricket site.

South of Birmingham, where I’m staying, the hills roll and it is delightful middle England, but a few miles north the city starts and the flowers stop. When Edgbaston hosted the first Test of the series eight years ago it seemed much nicer – and not just because Australia won. I was camped in the crowd at square leg when Marcus Trescothick, who was delaying the innings defeat with 76, pulled a Brett Lee short ball to two seats away from me, where another Australian accepted a lunging take. The match finished early and the next venue was Wimbledon for the Rafter-Ivanisevic final. They were good days.

For the first six hours today it was much more subdued throughout the ground. Things livened up for a short time when the players stepped out, but got quieter with each boundary. In the stands there is usually an unofficial fancy dress contest being held, but there weren’t too many outstanding exhibits, probably due to the necessity for rain coats and umbrellas.

There were a handful of superheroes and a quartet of gods that weren’t capable of getting the clouds to blow away until well after lunch. For those not interested in beer or their mobiles during the break, there were highlights of the 2005 masterpiece created by these sides on the big screen. It wasn’t enough for some, who sat on the concrete concourse out the back reading novels or match programmes.

The late start did give the many cricket fans who indulged last night in expectation of a wet opening day more time to wake up. There were more than 500 people at a Lord’s Taverner’s dinner where Andrew Flintoff and Steve Harmison popped in for a brief Q&A. Matthew Hoggard was another guest and when asked if he was still being considered by England he looked to the front row and Ashley Giles, the England selector. He said Giles’ shake of the head told him everything.

England are carrying a 13-man squad in Birmingham and those onlookers with sinister minds could wonder about the methods employed by some of the players during their warm-up games of football. On Monday Ian Bell, just returned to first-choice status, twisted his ankle and on Tuesday Graeme Swann rolled around on the ground grabbing a foot before hobbling back into play (Can anyone remember where Monty Panesar was at the time?).

Neither player suffered enough to be in doubt for the game, but Edgbaston is a ground with a history of late setbacks. It was here that Glenn McGrath stepped on a ball before the second Test in 2005, an event which helped change the course of Ashes history.

Andrew Strauss will consider toning down the football challenges in the lead-up to the game, although there shouldn’t be too much danger of anyone going outside today. It’s pouring so much at the moment I fear the conservatory will start leaking.

"It wasn't ideal [on Monday], but we've played football for a long time and had no injuries,” Strauss said. “We just have to make sure we don't hack each other too much."

Strauss has been good fun on the tour and has been happy to laugh at himself. His wife Ruth is Australian but he convinced us there were no testing conversations about country allegiance in their house. "I think I've successfully converted her, cricket wise," he said, quickly adding that she remained pro-Aussie in all other departments.

Arthur Mailey, the Australian legspinner, journalist and cartoonist, called his biography 10 for 66 and All That for his best figures against Gloucestershire on the 1921 tour. Over the weekend we found ourselves on a day out in 1066 country, where there are constant oblique references for cricket anoraks, and also to some battles. So we drove through and enjoyed all that.

The Pevensey Castle in East Sussex dates back to the 1200s and despite some wear shows better defence than Monty Panesar and James Anderson on a final day in Cardiff. There are similarly attractive scenes not far away in the frighteningly-named town of Battle, the venue for some serious hostilities between the soldiers of William the Conqueror and the Saxon King Harold in the 11th century. The details make it impossible to believe the Ashes are ever referred to as war. Over in Eastbourne the beach is pebbled and too tough for cricket, but the weight of the raindrops was familiar from a couple of grounds over the past month.

A weekend garden party followed with Pimms and sandwiches topped with cucumber (seriously delicious), and now it’s off to Birmingham via an Andrew Strauss appearance at The Oval. Most of the main players have had a short break too, but it’s unlikely they spent time considering historical sites before their battles resume.

Dear British friends, it’s been so great to get all your texts since Monday. Buzz, buzz: England r gr8. Buzz, buzz: Ashes r ours. Buzz, buzz: Ur teams a dud. I haven’t heard from some of you for years. Four years, to be exact. It’s a fun week to be an Australian in England.

This sort of thing happened the last time I was here. Fortunately on that visit I didn’t last long enough to reach the 2005 Ashes experience, but I was around when Australia lost to Bangladesh in Cardiff. Another great day for receiving texts and emails.

So I’m starting to get a bit tired of the cricket-related messages on this trip. It’s a bit of a worry, as there are still six weeks to go. Maybe Kevin Pietersen’s injury (and a recovery for Mitchell Johnson?) will stop the texts. Please.

It’s swine flu season and the Australian team has asked one of the touring journalists to stay away from them for three days after a suspected case of the disease. There are many moments when the players would like to insist on a reporter being in quarantine (on one occasion in Worcester a reporter was uninvited from a press conference), but unfortunately for them it takes a pandemic to shut down some of the questions.

I don’t have it yet, but I think the guy in the pin-striped suit who sneezed on me this morning did. All over my paper. Britain seems to be the swine flu capital of the world at the moment and everyone seems to be sizing up each other’s health on the trains and buses. Life in the parks is much cleaner. There it’s the runners that make me feel sick.

Finding time to do any exercise other than walking up stairs or to the tube is kind of hard on tour, but in Kensington Gardens people pound their own tracks in the grass, passing Princess Diana’s former residence, or breezing past on bikes, pretending they are across the Channel in the Tour de France. Over there Cadel Evans is doing as well as the Australian cricket team did at Lord’s.

Evans, who is backing up after two second places in the race, is going downhill faster than Mitchell Johnson on the Lord’s slope. He started well before losing his rhythm and form while the Australians were at Lord’s. Unlike his countrymen, he is no longer in contention for one of sport’s greatest prizes.

At lunch at the Nursery End you really have no choice where you end up as the crowd river sweeps you along. Yesterday I was deposited on the bank next to the Wolf Blass Wine stall. Hmmm, what to do? Fortunately they were offering Chardonnay Semillon, something which gives me a headache as I’m drinking it instead of after.

Slipping back into the stream of people I found some friends who were lunching on the Nursery Ground outfield. Lord’s is a trustworthy place, where spectators are allowed to bring in a bottle of wine or a few beers to sip during the day. Nothing like that in Australia, where cans often go straight from the hand to the feet of fine leg. One day at the SCG Pat Symcox, the South Africa spinner, had an un-nibbled roast chicken hurled at him and one night at the Gabba there was an announcement over the PA saying anyone seen throwing paper planes on to the field will be ejected. Plastics cup of light beer have since been introduced at most grounds.

Being at Lord’s demands good behaviour. No streakers, no protestors and no stands full of people singing insults to great-great-great-great-great-great grandchildren of convicts. It’s one week of genteel relief. Out the back of the pavilion there are picnics in the Coronation Gardens and clinking glasses brought from home. Can’t imagine that happening at Edgbaston or the Gabba.

My first day of a Lord’s Test was in 1991, as a 13-year-old, and entry was obtained in a particularly Australian way. Sri Lanka were playing a one-off match and my Dad was carrying a Melbourne Cricket Club badge loaned to him by a friend while we went on holiday. Dressed like Australian tourists, we turned up at the gate on the final day knowing that the southern hemisphere MCC had reciprocal rights with the original. We thought we’d either get into the pavilion or turned away – if that latter happened we wouldn’t pay to get in (too expensive), and it would have to be London sightseeing with the other half of the family.

The gateman, more polite than we’d heard about, let both of us in on one tiny badge but suggested it might be best if we didn’t head to the pavilion. Maybe it was because we were wearing shorts, not the required jacket or tie, or perhaps he remembered my Dad’s behaviour when Bob Massie took 16 wickets here in 1972. We sat underneath where the media centre would be built in time for the 1999 World Cup, surrounded by cheering Sri Lankan fans who were failing to inspire their over-powered heroes.

Two things stand out: Graham Gooch looking old and dropping a catch running back towards us; and a young Sanath Jayasuriya making a half-century at No. 6. Jayasuriya, then 22, was much classier than most of his team-mates and we wondered why he was batting so low. This time I’m sitting right behind the bowler’s arm in the Nursery End space. It’s luxury compared to the previous visit, but not as noisy as the media centre is almost soundproof.

The Sheffield Shield once spent a night in my house and currently it resides in the Lord’s museum, which must be a bit of a pain for Victoria, who won Australia’s domestic trophy in March for the first time in six seasons. It’s around the corner from the Ashes, the tiny urn which still has a bit missing from the cork, like it was hacked away by a pirate expecting whiskey instead of dust. Since the Shield slept in my lounge on its trip around Queensland to mark the team’s drought-breaking win in 1995, it’s undergone the sort of renovation expected of a middle-aged divorcee.

The frumpy blue felt was locked away in a cupboard at Cricket Australia’s offices while the organisation had an affair with a milk company and its shiny new trophy. When those cheques stopped arriving the Shield was restored, changing colours and faces with some intricate make-up. It looks familiar but, like a Trinny & Susannah makeover, you go searching for the person underneath the facade. Anyway, it’s great that it’s the first-class domestic reward again and it was bought originally with Lord Sheffield’s money, so it’s a worthy exhibit during an Ashes series.

My favourite piece in the museum is a mystery body part of Denis Compton’s. It was handed in by Compton’s surgeon who thought it was a knee cap. However, the tag below the off-white bone reads: “It’s now thought to be his hip joint removed in his second operation.” I’m glad he’s not my doctor.

A few times in the lead-up to the second Test, sitting in the spaceship which doubles as the media centre, I was consumed by typing or talking and forgot briefly where I was. Looking up from the screen snapped me back, with the imposing and magical pavilion staring straight back. It is the most majestic place to watch cricket, a treat I once had when Middlesex played Nottinghamshire in a Championship game, and is as high as the neighbouring stands.

It’s hard to think of sixes rattling into the base of the pavilion, which sits behind an already long straight boundary, but a few men have managed to bump it near the top. Only Albert Trott, who played for both Australia and England, has managed to clear it, and it’s unlikely anyone will aim for glory in this match. (If there’s a betting market on it Mitchell Johnson is my tip.)

Kim Hughes and Keith Miller have smashed the top of the building, with Miller commentating when Hughes sent a Chris Old delivery 125 metres during the Centenary Test of 1980. “Those in the vicinity maintain the ball was rising still as it struck the top deck of the pavilion,” wrote Chris Ryan in Golden Boy.

In the commentary box Miller, who peppered the structure during the Dominion Tests, was asked if he’d seen a bigger six at the ground. “Well, I hit a couple there myself, oddly enough,” he said. “But not many have. That is one of the biggest hits I’ve seen for many, many a year. On top of the balcony.”

All former Australian players who had appeared in an Ashes Test were invited back for that match and Kerry O’Keeffe, the straight-breaking legspinner, spent a bit of time in the Father Time Bar, where one of his drinking partners was Mick Jagger. O’Keeffe plans to park there again as part of his tour-leading duties over the next five days. Any member of the Rolling Stones who turns up is allowed to join the shout.

Walking into Lord’s and suddenly I remember I’ve never been to an Ashes Test there. I spent three years in London, starting in 2001, but couldn’t get tickets for the big match. Instead I had to be satisfied with seeing Australia lose to Middlesex in a one-day game and learning of a great pub crawl starting at the Lord’s Tavern and ending at Warwick Avenue tube. The following summer, by which time that hangover had finally eased, I went to the India Test and a 50-over final as well as a few county games. Suddenly I’m more excited – only two more sleeps!

Inside the ground there are tour groups full of green-and-gold decked tourists who trawl in awe through the ground, media centre and museum, where the urn sits along with the Sheffield Shield (at least that’s a temporary exhibit; the Ashes live here). While photos are being taken on the edge of the ground I spot a chance to step on to the outfield, but the staff are quick to block it off. If only I was swifter on my feet.

In the afternoon some of the game’s bigger names talk after their MCC cricket committee meeting. Steve Waugh is there, attracting my stares as I remember his great deeds before both our hairstyles started to change colour, and Geoffrey Boycott, who dominates when he speaks and even gets his panelists to laugh at the forceful mode of delivery. Rahul Dravid is deferential, sweating when he pats back an answer on whether India would warm to a World Champions of Test cricket.

There is talk of umpiring and dead pitches, pink balls and day-night Tests, Twenty20 and IPL, but the only mention of the Ashes is allowed when the Spirit of Cricket issue is raised about Sunday’s finish in Cardiff. Outside the teams are training, the pitch is being rolled and the ground is being polished. It’s the only contest being discussed – except in here.

Cricket in Sri Lanka and the brass bands are inseparable commodities. It's just such a day-long party, an existence outside cricket yet so much a part of it. Watching on TV, questions have always cropped up. What music do they play when Sri Lanka is not doing well, for they hardly ever stop playing? More curiously, how do they play Hindi songs, obscure ones at that, which many in India have forgotten too? And do they belong in Test cricket?

There are two endearing answers to the first two questions. "We don't play according to the match, we play according to the crowd. As long as the crowd is up to it, we keep playing," says the bandmaster at the P Sara Oval.

For the answer to the second question, we need to know they don't understand or speak Hindi. Ask them about the Hindi tunes, and they can sing the first two lines of many songs, perfectly in tune. Mere sapno ki rani (they don't know the album), Dekha hai pehli baar (Saajan, they know), Love in Tokyo (they don't know), Meet na mila (Abhimaan, they know), and many others. How do they learn playing them? "So what if we don't understand the language, we are crazy about the Hindi music," says the bandmaster. Music has some power, for somebody to be able to hum the lines they have no idea what they mean.

The third question has more complex answers, and more personal ones. They are enjoyable in a boring Test match, but when it is engrossing play, perhaps they seem out of place. More at home in limited-overs cricket. Boundary fielders, all alone in a crowd when under a skier, can't like it too.

Then again it is a personal judgement. Neither can anything take away from the energy that exists in the tent they play their music in. It's hard not to enjoy it. In the centre of the tent, the band has about 10 chairs for them and the equipment. The men on the trumpet take the lead, those on drums follow, those in the crowd can't stop dancing as long as there is air passing through those trumpets. In the lesser matches, like the famous school cricket (although it would be criminal to describe that cricket as 'lesser'), arrack flows too.

The brass bands have become so much a part of the picture that cricket in Sri Lanka is that it would be difficult to imagine it without these brass bands. To each his own then.