Probably the only thing you’ll read today with both sexual positions and cricket fielding positions

I had an absolutely lovely weekend with Andrew.

Since I recently wrote about excessive amounts of sexual trauma at work, I’m still feeling quite jumpy, but overall less anxious. I have been quite depressed though. After feeling miserable at work this week, it’s been such a lovely weekend.

I saw Andrew earlier in the week. We went out for some drinks together on Tuesday, near where he works. We had planned just to have a couple of drinks, then go our separate ways, as he was working early the next morning, but he unexpectedly came home with me, which was nice.

We thought we wouldn’t see each other for a week after that, because he was going up to Leeds to watch the cricket, and then I was going camping.

However, when I texted my uni friends on Thursday morning, saying, “see you all tomorrow,” it transpired I’d got the weeks mixed up.

It’s next weekend we’re going camping.

Andrew phoned me from his Travelodge on Thursday evening, after the first day of the cricket, and I told him I actually wasn’t going camping this week after all.

“Great! Maybe I can come and see you when I get back tomorrow night, even if it’s late?” he said.

So, on Friday night, I cooked myself dinner, had a bath and watched TV, and Andrew eventually got to mine at 11pm.

He got to mine, and let himself in.

He has a hat that he wears when we watches cricket, and I hate it. The first time I saw it, for a moment I rethought our relationship.

It’s a khaki sort of bucket hat from Next.

In the early stages of our relationship, I kept it to myself, but winced whenever he came around with the hat on. One time, it ended up on the floor, near my front door, next to a pile of recycling I was planning to take out, and I tried to work out if I could accidentally throw it away.

Then, when we’d been together for several months, I decided our relationship was strong enough for a Hat Truth Bomb.

I can’t remember how it came up, but one day, I said, “I’m afraid I really hate that hat.”

Now, it’s become an in-joke between us. The more I express my animosity towards the hat, the more delight he takes in wearing it.

“It’s partly just the way you wear it! It’s pulled down so low at the front, with your eyes peeping out from under the brim like a cartoon mushroom!” I always say.

At another cricket match he’d been to, he thought he’d lost the hat, but it turned out it was at the bottom of his bag.

“What would you have done if you had lost it?” I laughed.

“I would have reported it at the cricket ground, and to the police. They probably would’ve postponed the rest of the match until it was found, as it’s such a valuable hat.”

When he arrived on Friday night, he had the hat on.

I laughed, when I saw him on the landing.

We hugged tightly, and then he said, “I need to shower! I’m so sweaty.”

It had been a really hot day, and he’d been in the sun and then travelling.

“Do you really need a shower?” I asked, not letting go.

“I do, I’m disgusting,” he said.

We went into my bedroom and he took his clothes off, and we hugged again. I felt so pleased to see him.

Even though it had only been a few days, we were really pleased to see each other.

The fact he’d been in a different part of the country made me miss him.

He walked into the hallway, towards the bathroom, and I followed him.

“I love your body,” I said, touching various parts of it.

We kissed just outside my bedroom, and he pressed me against the wall.

“Can I chat to you, while you’re in the shower?” I said.

He seemed keen for me to do it, but I checked again that he didn’t mind.

He turned the water on, and got into shower. I sat on the toilet with the seat down, and chatted to him through the shower curtain.

We talked about the cricket match. He’d seen one of the worst days of cricket in history, that day. England had been bowled out for 67 by Australia – one of the lowest totals ever.

I told him about my day at work.

I can’t remember what else we talked about, but it just felt nice.

Occasionally he asked what bottles in the shower he should use, as he didn’t have his contact lenses in, so couldn’t read the labels. I think he normally guesses.

I handed him his towel when he’d finished, and he cleaned his teeth.

I touched his naked, wet body, and helped him dry himself.

“I love your bum,” I said. “You know how your bum is the only part of your body that you actually believe is nice, because those girls on that Hen Night said it?”

(Once some female friends were organising a Hen Night, and were doing a quiz, which included a round in which the Hen had to identify which body parts belonged to her husband-to-be, from photos of other men. They asked for a photo of Andrew’s bum for the bum round. Afterwards, they fed back that all the women there said Andrew had a nice bum.)

“Do you think if I could get women to independently verify that parts of your body are nice too, you’d believe it? Like if they saw photos of your legs or something?” I said.

“They did say that on that Hen Night, but that was a long time ago. Before I turned into a giant orca, that’s has got beached in San Fransisco bay,” he said.

I laughed, even though I normally don’t like when he’s saying horrible things about his own body.

Then he told me needed the toilet, so I left him to it.

I lay on the bed in the bedroom, and he came in a few minutes later.

He finished drying himself, and then got on the bed with me.

We had sex, and it felt really loving.

He said, “I love you,” at the start, which was really nice, because it’s more common that I say it first.

We did the position we call ‘upside-down umbrella’, which is where we are both kind of sitting upright, facing, with our legs wrapped around each other, almost as if we’re both sitting cross-legged. Our bodies are like the poll of an umbrella, and our legs make the canopy. (I had to Google the term ‘canopy’.)After the post-match analysis of the sex, we both read things on our phones and chatted, and then went to sleep.

On Saturday morning, he said he needed to go, as he had DIY things he needed to do in his flat.

I didn’t really want him to go.

It was about 10 or 11am, as we lay chatting in bed.

“I might go and buy some eggs and make us breakfast,” he said.

He made us scrambled eggs and avocados, and then we lay on the sofa and both read the news and things.

From the morning, until he finally left, at about 4pm, we spent the whole time saying, “we really should be productive today,” and then just lying around, hugging, talking and having sex.

At one point, I was really serious about having a shower, and went and put my towel in the bathroom, but then I lay on the bed with him and we ended up talking about our childhoods for another couple of hours.

Eventually, he left and I did have a shower, and then went into town, to do some shopping. I bought a new bra and spoke to someone in John Lewis about some possible curtains.

We agreed I’d go over to his late in the evening, and we’d go for a drink.

It was late when I got to his side of London, and we went to a pub for a drink, then went back to his and had more sex.

This time, we did it in my favourite position, which is where the lady is face down, and the man is lying face down on top of her, like doggy style, but both people lying down. He puts his hand underneath me and touches me. This time we both came at the same time, which was nice.I had got my period by then, so we put a towel down.

He also spent ages giving me oral sex, even though it was my period, which still amazes me every time. I don’t know any other men who do that, but he just says, “it can’t taste any worse than semen.”

That day, we’d both been following the cricket on and off all day.

Let’s go back a stage.

I know not everyone is a cricket fan.

Cricket is a game in which two teams of eleven people play each other. In the game, one team bats while the other team bowls, and then they swap over.

(It’s probably from the same family of games as rounders or baseball, in that sense?)

When your team is batting, two of you stand on the pitch in front of the stumps (3 prongs of wood, as if a big wooden fork has been stabbed into the grass from underneath the earth). You are each holding cricket bats, while your other 9 friends wait in the pavilion for their turn.The bowler from the other team throws a cricket ball towards you, and if you hit it, you run and switch places with your friend, and your team scores a ‘run’ (unless you hit it all the way to the edge of the pitch, (a boundary) and you score 4 runs, or even 6).

The bowler’s friends are all dotted around the cricket pitch in strategic places (called things like ‘third man’, ‘first slip’ or ‘square leg’, but you can completely enjoy the game without knowing what these words means. I do).

They are trying to catch the ball after you’ve hit it. If they catch it before it touches the ground, you’re ‘out’.

You’re also out if the ball touches your leg, but the umpire/technology decide it would have hit the cricket stumps if it hadn’t hit your leg. You’re also out if the bowler’s friends (fielders) get the ball and through it back to the wooden prongs while you’re still running between stumps.

There are different versions of cricket, which last different amounts of time.

The match this weekend was a ‘test match’, lasts five days. To win, your team has to score the most amount of runs, and also bowl out the other team twice. (You usually both bat twice, but there are exceptions to this.)

The last thing you need to know about cricket is the scoring.

When you hear cricket scores, it can often sound like you’re being told a very complicated fraction, or the numbers game in Countdown, but it’s actually very easy.

They always say two numbers, when they’re saying the score during an innings, like ‘362 for 9′, or ’50 for 1’.

The first number is the number of runs that team has scored. If your team are batting, you want that number to be HIGH.

Then, the second number is the number of batting players who are out already (called the number of ‘wickets’ you’ve lost). If your team are batting, you want that number to be LOW.

If your team is bowling, you want the number of runs to be LOW, and the number of people you’ve got out to be HIGH.

At the moment, we (and I say, ‘we’, I’ve played a minimal role in it myself – ‘England’) are playing Australia in a series of five test matches, over the summer.

It’s always called the ‘Ashes’ when England and Australia play this series against each other, because centuries ago, after they played each other, they set fire to the cricket stumps afterwards, and kept the ashes in a little urn.

For many people, the Ashes is the pinnacle of cricket, because the rivalry between England and Australia makes it so good. Australia is basically better than England at every sport, even though most sports were invented in the UK, so if we ever beat them, the victory is sweet.

I grew up watching cricket from when I was a little girl, as my family all love cricket. I was always on the fence about it. Most of my memories of family summer holidays are me being shushed in the car while my brothers and Dad were trying to listen to the cricket commentary.

We played cricket in our garden in the summer. (In our family, if you accidentally hit the ball into the neighbours’ garden, you got 6 runs but were also ‘out’. It took a long time before I realised there’s no “6 and out” in professional cricket, even if it goes into the car park of the stadium.)

My brother played cricket in our local league, and sometimes I got dragged to watch it.

It wasn’t until I got a boyfriend who loved cricket, that I properly got into it.

Then, in summer of 2005, we played the Ashes. We hadn’t won since the 1980s. It was a brilliant series, and I was in Australia, visiting my brother, for the last two games, which made it even more special (although it did mean that while everyone back home was watching the victory bus tour around Trafalgar Square on TV, we just saw footage of Ricky Ponting arriving at an airport looking grumpy.)

This summer, the cricket world cup was in England, and we won the final.

I was at a music festival that day, and I spent the whole time checking the score, every few minutes. It was incredibly tense and exciting.

While Bastille were on, I gave occasional cursory glances at the stage while having this text conversation with Andrew.Andrew is a big cricket fan. He often goes to games in London, and has been to every match of this Ashes series.

So, this weekend, England were playing the third match of the series. We had lost one, and another had been a draw, but every match felt like it could go either way, at several points.

The third game had started badly. Australia batted first, and didn’t get that many runs (179), so it felt promising, but then we batted and it was absolute shitshow.

67. Our highest scoring batsmen got 12, which is CRAP. I don’t know what they were thinking.

Then, things changed.

Australia had got 246 in their 2nd innings. This meant in England’s 2nd innings, we needed 359 to win, and that seemed very unlikely.

However, at the end of Saturday, England had got 155 runs and only 3 people were out. We seemed to be batting properly this time – two people had got more than 50 runs.

We needed to get another 203 runs, which seemed unlikely, but not completely impossible.

Andrew is always much more cautious than I am.

I always say, “they could do it!” and he says, “no, no, to be honest, I’d rather they completely squandered it than dragged it out and gave us hope.”

On Sunday, we chatted, had breakfast, had sex and checked the score.

Joe Root got out quite quickly, but then Stoke and Bairstow were in, and they got up to 245 for 4, and it seemed quite promising.

We started to dare to dream. (Or at least, I did).

We had banter about whether it was a bigger Psychological milestone when we passed Australia’s score of 246, or when we reached 259, when our required runs was down to double figures.

Could we actually make it to 359?

Andrew thought No.

This would the highest total we’d ever chased and won, in history, if we’d done it.

Then, in a really space time, loads of our batsmen got out for low scores.

The radio commentary was turned off in disgust.

We had sex, and every time we paused to check the score, we’d lost another wicket.

(At one point, he was giving me oral and I was just refreshing the score on my phone, which is rude, really).

When we got down to our last wicket, we both agreed it was completely impossible.

We still needed about 70 runs, and the last batsmen of the 11 are always the least likely to score lots of runs.

We both had vague plans to do DIY over the weekend, and decided to give up on the cricket and crack on with that, as there was no way we’d get 70 more runs.

It was over, which meant the Ashes series was over, as we couldn’t win the series if we lost this match.

Never mind.

Andrew needed to go to Homebase, and I planned to go home via Wilkinson’s. Andrew needed to buy tools so he could lift up a floorboard of his new-build flat, as it seems like the floor hasn’t been insulated properly. I need to buy one of those brushy draught excluder strips to put around my front door.

I got dressed and said Goodbye to Andrew. We agreed to meet up later in the week.

It’s about a 20 minute walk to the tube station from Andrew’s flat. I decided to listen to the BBC commentary as I walked. It’s a lot of the same presenters as they had on those childhood summer car journeys, so it’s fun and comforting to listen to.

Somehow, although we needed 70 runs, and it seemed impossible when I left, by the time I reached the tube, we only needed 20 runs!

The dream was back on!

Ben Stokes kept hitting perfect boundary after boundary. Every time the commentators and crowd gasped, I paused on the pavement, with my face in my hands, unsure if it was a boundary or a wicket.

Ben Stokes got a century (100 runs) and suddenly we only needed 33 to win.

I texted Andrew, “I really recommend putting the commentary back on, it’s a great atmosphere!”

We could ACTUALLY do this!!

Then, “21 to go!”

I was supposed to be going into the station, but I knew the commentary would cut out once I went down the escalator and onto the train, and I couldn’t miss this.

It was about 31 degrees C (ie really fucking hot for England). I stood in the street, in a shady corner, for a while, listening to the cricket.

It’s not a great part of London. An estate agent would call it ‘vibrant’ or ‘up and coming’.

I decided to buy a drink the nearby pub, and carry on listening. I’d never been in that pub, as it seems pretty rough.

This time, as I walked in, I noticed there were several police officers in the garden, and the barman told me they weren’t serving anymore.

So, I went back onto the street and carried on listening, pacing up and down, near the station.

I texted Andrew again, saying, “I’m just pacing around near the station!”

Then, he phoned me. I almost didn’t want to answer, and miss any of the commentary.

“I’m outside the station too! Where are you?” he asked.

I assumed he would’ve still been in the shower or something, but he was on his way to Homebase.

We needed 9 to win! We were down to single figures!

We found each other in the middle of a busy crossroads, and frantically ran back onto the pavement.

We were both listening with our earphones in, but Andrew tried to put it on the speakers on his phone.

We went into a little park, near the station.

“Let’s sit down!” I said, craning my ears to try and hear his tiny phone speakers.

“I can’t sit down!” he replied.

“He’s hit a 6!”

“2 to win!” we both said.

The commentary on his phone cut out, and I hastily put mine on instead.

Sweat was dripping off both of us.

(There was a thing about LBWs and reviews, but that’s beyond the scope of this piece.)

Then, they got another run.

“Oh my god!”

Scores were level.

We needed one more to win!

And Stokes hit it for 4.

“YESSSS!!!!” We both cried, hugging each other tightly.

We needed 359 to win, but we got 362!

“I really glad we were able to enjoy that together,” Andrew said.

We sat on the grass and chatted for a while. We both kept saying “362!” every few minutes. Then Andrew decided to leave, to try and get to Homebase before it closed.

But I still didn’t want to go into the tube.

I was listening to the post-match interviews on my phone, enjoying the glow. I didn’t want to it to be over.

I went and bought a can of Pimms and Lemonade from the shop, and a cereal bar, and went back to the park.

I lay on the grass, and heard Ben Stokes say, “he’s got serious bollocks” about his team mate, Jack Leach, much to the consternation of the Test Match Special crew.I read the reactions on Twitter, and texted my friends.

My brother, who lives in Australia, had posted this, a couple of days earlier:And people commented:

I found the post, and added to the list of things the English are good at:


I texted Andrew a photo of the park and the can of Pimms, and said “I still can’t leave.”

He said he was on his way back, and asked if I wanted to meet up.

He got me some more cans of Pimms and Lemonade, and rejoined me in the park.

We sat and chatted, mainly about the cricket, for a while, and then decided to go and have roast dinner in a pub.

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