Standing Tall in the Dark

This is not about cricket. 

This is about my demons. 

I'm aware that talking about such personal things on a public blog is potentially a very stupid thing to do. In some ways, it would be easier to let you lot into my house and hand out my bank details (I'm not going to do this). But you know what? I'm so fed up with being ashamed. I'm fed up with letting the demons get the upper hand. So maybe if I open the doors and shed some light on them, they will retreat into the shadows a little more. And even if my demons are hardier than that, maybe someone else will read this and it will help them to understand their demons - or those of someone they know - a little better.

The statistical relationship between cricket and pants

Warning: This blog entry is just a little bit Women's Magazine. There is cricket (obviously) but in relation to Other Girlie Stuff (not Icky Girlie Stuff, don't panic). Just so you know.

It may surprise people to hear this, but there is no direct correlation between the amount you know (or claim to know) about cricket and/or cricketers and the position of my underwear. No, really. The logical people reading this - and I do hope this means most, if not all, of my audience - will be saying, "Why on earth does she feel the need to mention this?" Some of you may feel slightly queasy at the thought of me sullying cricket with talk of my undergarments. I can only apologise. But being a single-and-attempting-to-date woman who openly loves cricket seems to have brought the idiots crawling out of the woodwork.

The main thing is this: women who are genuinely into cricket for the cricket are not going to be star-struck because a man claims his sister's doctor's uncle's dog once almost spilled Graeme Swann's pint in a beer garden.