You wake up next to your tombstone.

Shit.

You’d obviously gone over your carefully rationed two fingers of scotch last night.

Whenever England lost in the cricket you lost your self control.

You rub your face and think about what must have gone down.

Danni would have banished your soggy, mopey, shell-of-man-self to the workshop and you would have snuggled in amidst the stone chips, with a chisel for a teddy bear and a marble slab for a pillow, thinking it was your due.

Stumbling to the mirror you examine the roman numeral pattern imprinted on your cheek.

England mustn’t have lost by much as you’d chosen a death date a good 28 years into the future. When Australia thrashed them last season you’d only given yourself a year of miserable living.

Thankfully you were almost due to destroy that tombstone. Last night’s work however, that you’d have to store for a while.

Picking it up you stagger over and add it to a growing pile against the wall. Hopefully next week’s test would go better…