"Would you like some marmalade dear?"

Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Canterbury is bright and breezy with a few spots of rain in the air but nothing serious. And, thankfully, its warmer.

Play should start on time and Warwickshire need a strong morning session to make up for yesterday's erratic batsmanship.

By the way, I can report a display of top-drawer, virtuoso grumpiness already today. Almost Batchesque, it was.

At breakfast in the hotel, the help-yourself area, which was perfectly well-equipped, was being maintained by an African guy. He was working his socks off, keeping everything topped up, while at the same time being courteous and pleasant to everyone.

In came a customer; an English chap, slightly above middle-age and somewhat lacking in joie de vie. He sends his bread through the toasting machine then scowls because it's not been toasted enough and sends it through again then scowls again because its still not done enough so he sends it through a third time and smoke starts billowing out of the machine from which emerges two charred remnants. He scowls, swears and stalks off, leaving the remnants for the next person to collect.

Back at the table, he castigates the scrambled egg as tasteless and the sausages as horrible (he must have been unlucky because my scrambled egg and sausages were fine). "Would you like some marmalade dear?" asks his remarkably patient wife. He scowls again and glares in the direction of the African guy who is still feeding the 5,000 with a smile.

Sometimes, y'know, I think all the immigrant workers over here should get together and form a group to promote the case of there being too many indigenous people in this country.