Just not cricket

After yesterday, I am longer mentioning international cricket. Unfortunately, because I've been talking about cricket for some weeks, my elder son is now fascinated. He took not coming to Lord's with a good grace (thankfully. He's far too young to be useful and be sent to get the drinks). Instead, I said I'd take him to the Oval to watch Surrey another weekend. This has three major advantages: it's cheap, down the road, and there's a chance they might actually win. I discover today it has one overwhelming disadvantage: there aren't any matches. Not one.

Preposterously, in the week that schools break up, there are now no more weekend fixtures at the Oval - for the entire rest of the year (her's the schedule). In fact, Surrey played on only one weekend day throughout all July (in Leicester). They play most weekends in August, but only one is at home (and that's in Guildford). They don't play a single weekend in September unless they reach a final or two. None of these games are at the Oval. These things aren't relevant to me yet, but that means there is not a single weekend game for the entire school holidays, even if you're working off private education holidays. In the spirit of even-handedness, the early part of the summer was better, but I am unimpressed. 

I know no-one watches county cricket, but I feel they could try a bit harder.

Bibliography, June 2015

BOTM: M. Pollan, Cooked

B. Cunliffe, Facing the Ocean
C. Mieville, The city and the city
M. Robinson, Lila
W. Miller, A Canticle for Leibowitz
E. Zola, Germinal
A. Zamoyski, Poland

It's a sad reflection of living with children, that despite being on holiday for much of June, I still only managed a paltry seven books, albeit a number were long and excellent. Mieville and Zola exceptionally so. As an aside, this means I may attempt the whole Rougon - Macquart sequence. The best of all though was Michael Pollan's book about cooking (and baking and brewing). I was concerned in the first few pages that he may be a too Californian for me, but though there were moments, they were few and mild. Instead, his book manages simultaneously to be both a fascinating discursive ramble through the cooking approaches he explored and a practical call to action to specific cooking techniques. As a result, in my spare time between reading nineteenth century French novels, I am going to bake bread.