A SKYLARK rose majestically over the dew-glistened meadow, its shrill call beckoning a reluctant sun from its resting place beyond the eastern horizon.

The only other sound to punctuate the solitude was the whirring of the milk float idling its way past the village green.

The same village green that would later reverberate to the traditional sound of leather on mature but perennially under-used willow.

That would echo the chink of champagne flutes and the shrieks of children hiding and seeking with equal relish.

It was England. It was summer. It was -- actually it was rubbish -- I'll start again.

The old man trudged on through the morass.

He shuddered as another Arctic blast permeated his four layers of frayed clothing biting deep into his aching bones.

He stopped to seek solace in the silver hip flask fastened securely to his belt. Betwixt muffler and cap he surveyed the scene.

A young athletic type in yellow chasing the ball, seemingly immune to the cloying underfoot conditions.

He passed the aged spectator at great speed only to fall suddenly, mud and water splattering his cherubic face. His slayer, a beast of a man in blue stood over him triumphantly. The youth rose unsteadily and hurled a barrage of invective at a third man, a man dressed in black from head to foot.

This arbiter listened, his face betraying no emotions.

He pulled a dog-earned notebook from his pocket, made a brief insertion and flashed a piece of luminous scarlet plastic at the raging player. Incensed, he laboured to the touchline continuing his tirade at the ambivalent one who merely shrugged his shoulders.

It was winter. It was wet. It was war.

And it was bloody wonderful!

Enjoy the summer if you can and to paraphrase a 6ft 7in Austrian "I'll be back if Steve wants me."

Thanks for all your comments both positive and otherwise -- it's been fun.