No image available
Lord’s, a drying oasis
Ah, Lord’s, that oasis of tradition in a world given over to instant, facile gratification of every which flavour. Yes, dear Lord’s, where time doesn’t dare move forward one tick unless; where the ungodly clatter of a woman’s heels marching to the beat of progress on the pavilion’s creaking floorboards causes collars and sphincters to tighten in unison.
