I only went to watch the cricket because South Africa were the visiting team.
England only had eight wickets in hand with two full days to play - I could see them hanging around until lunchtime, maybe half-an-hour after - so imminent defeat is as certain as it ever can be in a sporting contest.
The sun's gong thumped mercilessly over the city, sending all around scurrying for beer and suncream and wide-brimmed hats. Having negated the early-morning weather forecast, I had none of the aforementioned, and quickly began to suffer.
The condemned English batsmen, meanwhile, had mounted a strenuous defence. Only two more down by lunch, and those coming close to the end of the session. Two more down by tea when I, by now the colour of a stop light, decided to call it a day. I feared that if I remained in the furnace generated by the hottest day of the year, medical attention would be required.
Hours later, I lie in bed, trapped in a sweltering bubble of my own making. Arms inflated by the solar pump; head drumming remorselessly; neck cooked so severely that pulling a shirt over it resulted in tortured screams.
Paracetemol, fruit juice, donated aftersun.... all rebound pathetically from the heated wounds. Christ, I am sick! The sun is trapped beneath my skin, and beats in conjunction with my own heart. If the mad roar is extinguished, then I die with it, for it has overtaken me as music makes the dancer its subordinate.
I underestimated the high priest in his celestial pulpit, and he brought forth the might of the cosmos to burn away the arrogance and complacency that had been fattened by mankind.
