It started before lunch.

“Good morning” I said, making my way to the counter to order a late breakfast.

The man checks his watch.

“Just about” he says.

I glance at my own.

“Still got a good twenty five minutes mate…”

“Alright” he replies, a friendly grin spreading across his face “I’ll let you win that one.”

A knowing wink. I glance up the heavens and spread my arms wide as if to say ‘what can you do?’ I chuckle. He chuckles back.

The bastard.

We spent most of yesterday, like thousands of other Englishmen and women wandering dazed and confused perplexed as to what to do now. We were easy to identify not just to each other, but to spot a mile away. And not on all occasions because of the shining red faces and hot pink arms long associated with the brits abroad in sunnier climes. No- the giveaways this time were on the shellshocked faces- a mix between melancholia and confusion. There are some still brave enough to head out in their Barmy Army hats, their England jerseys, their tour t-shirts. I had bought dad for his birthday both an ECB hat and the England whites. Dad is too embarrassed to go out in either.

We ambled, on mass, around Perth and Fremantle. We looked less like a horde of zombies, unlike an army of the undead (not least of all because the Danny Boyle era of zombies move with remarkable speed and purpose), but more like a group whose menswear section at the local Marks and Spencers had suddenly vanished. What do we do now?

Dad and I took a slow and easy morning to once again wander around Perth city centre before taking advantage of the still free train travel for match ticket holders to head  the half an hour to Fremantle. The architecture in Perth is a real mix of beautiful brutalism (the opera house), more modern office blocks and towers, and the slightly more historic as represented by Government House. I have been stuck in far worse places.

I picked up a local paper, Christ knows why, and took no pleasure in reading aloud the written dismantling of the demolition job that had taken place the day before.

We were one of many on the move and trying to fill three days we hadn’t anticipated would need filling. On the train to Fremantle we got chatting to six or seven Welsh lads who had all made the trip out here for the cricket, and we each took it in turn pick through the rubble, none either able or willing to salvage anything from the events of the day before. They had gone to the women’s twenty20 at the Macca after the England/Australia test, given free entry on the promise that they filled the stadiums coffers and drowned their sorrows there. By all accounts, they kept up their end of the bargain. Dad and I had planned to go to that match but, as I pointed out to them, I want nothing less right now than to watch any more cricket. Let’s hope that changes by the time we fly to Brisbane on Friday for the second Test.

It was a much slower day, taking in the sights of a mobbed Fremantle- mobbed by the Australian weekenders and the aforementioned Brits. We’ve made some plans for the rest of the week: The Fremantle Prison (Unesco World Heritage Site), a tour of the stadium, the rooftop cinema, a zip line from the bridge, trips to a couple of breweries, maybe even a run or two. My shoulder is still on the mend so, as yet, no swimming for me.  

That and perfecting our Australian accents and, should Brisbane go the way of Perth, shopping around for the best deals on yellow and green clobber.