Round about two in the afternoon, the atmosphere at Old Trafford was loose and giddy. The crowd were two or three pints in, the sun was out, and England were already 200-and-some runs on. Everyone was waiting for them to declare but, for once, the team were not in a hurry.
On the balcony outside their dressing room, Brendon McCullum had his feet up on the chair in front of him. He had one eye on the Times crossword and the other on his tablet, which was streaming the golf from Hoylake. In the huge temporary stand away to his left, the crowd were threading beer snakes together, batting beach balls back and forth, and baiting the fielders.
