A black day for England

A few years ago I was on the San Francisco waterfront outside the terminal where the tour boats take visitors to Alcatraz. If you have to beg - and quite a few people have to beg, even in San Francisco - this is the place to do it.

The San Francisco beggars are an enterprising bunch. I saw one chap at an intersection, his feet fastened to milk crates in order to get above the traffic, passing a child's fishing net in front of car windows in the hope of getting a few cents.

Down at the terminal one of the beggars was dressed in a cow suit. Round his neck hung a placard saying "I moo for cash".

There are echos of that placard as I start this blog (not a word I like) since I write for cash. It's how I make my living. Like the laughing policeman in a penny arcade you just show me the money and those words start spewing out. Yet here I am, four paragraphs into whatever this is, and every word you've read has been brought to you absolutely free. It's killing me.

So I don't want you to expect a work of art in these columns and please don't get shirty if you find the odd spelling mistake or grammatical error. Don't expect essays or long columns either. They're elsewhere on my website . No, I think this spot is going to be reserved for snippets: stuff about the work that I do, the way that I work, the way that I live, bits about my family, things that I'm thinking of, partly formed ideas, some general observations, maybe some quirky stuff and the odd snapshot.

Talking of snapshots, and seeing as this space is going to include some personal stuff, you might be interested in having a peep at my photography. Ignore the shopping basket symbols. Any picture can be downloaded freely by friends. But if you want to use them professionally in any way, then get in touch. I snap for cash.

Have you noticed how some days are good and some not so good, for no fault of our own? Today should have been great. The sun was shining. There was no sign of the heron that has been eating the fish in my pond. And yet there was something niggling away, something I couldn't quite articulate for myself until I saw Freddy Flintoff's picture on the front page of the Telegraph. That was it. We had lost the second test. It shouldn't have happened but it had. There must be cricket lovers all over England walking around underneath their personal little black clouds. Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't hurt when we lose like that. It really hurts. I have a friend, Charles, who is out there just now. He had to leave for the beach before the end of the first test, couldn't bear any more of it. God only knows how he's taken this one. Why do the English have to suffer for their sport? I suppose it could be have been worse had I been born a Scot. It's hard to raise the roof over Curling.