I played, or let’s just say, I engaged in, for the first time ever, a game of cricket this afternoon. The field was a bit truncated, the players were of both sexes, a few of them under 12 and over 70, but I was assured that, indeed, this was cricket. Appearances are deceiving. It is nothing like baseball. Nobody spits big, juicy wads of tobacco or grabs their crotch—even on the pitching mound (Brit. = bowler’s position)—and there is no abusive chatter from the outfield before the pitch. It’s a gentleman’s game (Amer. = gentleperson’s game). There were ladies in hats and sun dresses having tea and crumpets along the the sidelines (Brit. = borders) watching us. There are drinks, both soft and hard, in the lounge after the innings—the “s” being used whether there is one innings or two.
I’m on the Royal Mail Ship Saint Helena. She’s about three football fields long and the crew set up netting on the sun deck to keep the ball from flying off into the South Atlantic. My 80 or so companions are mostly Brits on their way from London to Cape Town for business and pleasure; including a couple of newlyweds, an ornithologist headed for St. Helena on a grant from the British Museum of Natural History. There’s also a small contingent of “Saints,” (pronounced Sints, which is how the native St. Helenan refer to themselves in their particular English dialect). Saints are the main civilian workforce on Ascension and these fellow passengers are going home to visit their families on St. H where there are few jobs, but it is very pretty and of another time. It’s always good to have the saints with you when on a voyage.
The ornithologist is married to an ichthyologist also with the BMNH. She’s on vacation. I enjoy to imagining that this is how they get their vacations every year and escape the dingy Victorian bowels of the British Museum and the wet chill of London. Her best friend is an etymologist. With a couple of friends from the flora departments, they could probably start their own biosphere on Mars. When they speak of their science, they are kind enough to speak an English that non-ornithologist/ichthyologist, non-cricket playing barbarians like me can understand (like I?).
I’m dying to ask the ornithologist a question which has been bothering me for some time. They say that there are no stupid questions, and I would feel much better about this if I actually believed that. But I’ve searched the net’s many references and have found no satisfying answers. I would like him to show me a way to simply identify the difference between an eagle, a falcon and a hawk. Maybe I’ll ask him tomorrow during afternoon tea after “cards.”