Cricket: A passion that consumes you

Sorry, I can't stop to chat; I'm a man on a mission. I'm just about to stride out my front door to go in search of my postman. I think an important item of snail-mail has gone missing.

Oi, Mister Posty, I didn't receive my invitation in the mail - the invitation to show up at Everest Base Camp and play in the charity game of Twenty20 cricket.

What d'you mean, there WAS no invitation?

Maybe my international cricketing ambitions have reached a disappointing zenith. Okay, thanks very much, Mister Posty. Maybe I'll go see my shrink instead.

Hi there, Mister Shrinky, can you tell me if this serious oversight on the part of the organisers is a major setback for my dream of making cricket history? Yes, it is? Er, couldn't you have been more diplomatic?

You have nothing more to say? And I have to hand over a cheque for this consultation? That's not cricket.

There's just no justice. Speaking of justice, maybe I should go and see my solicitor. I would've gladly handed over a cheque to the organisers, for the privilege of playing the fund-raiser at Gorak Shep. I would even have toted all the equipment single-handedly, taking on the avatar of Superman-Sherpa. Come to think of it, I would have volunteered to clear the rocks from the area that was used as the cricket pitch. And if push came to shove, I would have taken on the duty of being official coin-tosser for the opposing captains, Glen Lowis and Haydn Main. It's very fitting that the two sides were Team Hillary and Team Tenzing. But as I await an invitation for the next match, I have to admit that I am no Hillary. But I am tensing.

The writer is a freelance journalist working in Australia.