Edgbaston, five weeks back, and Jimmy Anderson is at the end of his run. It’s his first spell of the series and a good morning for it. Play has started five minutes late because it has been raining, there are clouds above and four slips in a line behind. Anderson’s first over is a maiden, Usman Khawaja plays him soft and late, from deep in his crease. Second over, Anderson serves him a straight one which Khawaja plays to mid-off, a second on off-stump, which he blocks, and then slips him the away-swinger. It slides across the face of Khawaja’s bat and passes by an inch wide of his edge.
Anderson throws his arms down wide either side, the beginnings of a celebration which he’ll never get to finish, then collects himself, stares at Khawaja, purses his lips, smiles as he spins on his heels to begin again. It is only a matter of waiting, isn’t it? In the English summer, Anderson’s wickets are as reliable as rain showers, 27 last year, 18 the one before, 16 the one before that, 33, 39, 30, 33, 37 on and on all the way back into the early years of the century.
