It’s a cruel, cruel summer. By the close of play in Adelaide, on the kind of superheated afternoon when just going outside basically involves setting fire to your own hair, it was clear this was the day the music finally died for England’s Ashes tour; even if that music has long since faded, like the tinkle of a haunted pianola in an empty house.
The start of day two had presented a familiar challenge. Here was another occasion where it was necessary to bat properly. And yes, it is always this day. The bat properly day. Do it. Do the batting. The proper batting. By now this seems to raise some very basic existential questions.
