Weft, warp, weave. Fact or fiction? Making a fiction of the facts, or crafting a life to fit the story?


The fielders are in their brilliant white against the damp tanginess of the green. Wicketkeeper. Four slips. Gully. A buzz as we wait for the bowler to come in. Ball defended. Job done. Again, and again, and again.


Some days, the words come more easily than others. On the bad days, it’s like grinding out an innings; it’s easy to stumble, but at least you have the luxury of the delete key and a means to start again. A mistake is not cast in stone in the scorebook and the replays are only in your head, not on the giant screen for all to see as you trudge back to the pavilion.


But in every day of every life, almost, there are points of no return. Times you unleash a ball without realising its power. Or it slips from your hand, an unintentional beamer, and all you can do is watch in horror as it slips beneath the batsman’s grill and wounds, injures, scars. Once bowled, you can never unbowl it.


I am not on the pitch, nor am I truly a spectator. I am a watcher, yes, but a storyteller too. The figures in white move around the field. The words re-arrange themselves in my head. Unwittingly, I have become part of the narrative.