``An English Summer?'' shrieked the ladyship from distant Bangalore. ``You should be calling it an English nightmare.'' I held the phone some distance from my ear to allow a volley of abuse to crackle through, as passers-by at Leicester Square looked sympathetically at me, doubtless assuming I was at the receiving end of a dressing down from the inamorata for excesses too scandalous to mention. But the epithets were directed at the Indian cricket team and its scandalous excesses, and I was merely the conduit for the fine young lady, who far from being my inamorata, was a passionate lover of the game.

It turned out the ``cricket parties'' she was hosting on the day of India's games were being ruined by the performance of the boys (``Boys?'' I squawked) and it was up to me to ask them to shape up or ship out. I mumbled something about seeing the guys only on Wednesday when they play Sri Lanka in Taunton, but promised I would convey the colourful sentiments. By whichtime, I added in jest, they would have played Kenya, and should they lose to them, the only place they could ship out to would be the Serengeti. My humour was ill-received, and I was told that the failure of the Indian team was being seen as a national calamity. Apparently, people are even willing to forgive rising onion prices as long as we win in cricket.

Diving back into a watering hole called the Dog and Duck, I reflected gloomily about the fortunes of Indian cricket, which was as dark as the Guinness I was knocking back. The feckless performance of our heroes has not only caused a national depression, but also endangered the credentials of the Indian cricketing hackpack which has descended here to cover the games. Accreditation for games in the Super Six stage are to be obtained after the qualifying teams are known, and Indian scribes -- who constitute the largest contingent -- are beginning to wonder if they will be credentialled at all for the Super Six if India does not make it. I don't know wherethe Indian team is planning to flee if they mess it up, but the scribe tribe is already checking out the fares and accommodation in Paris, Amsterdam, Dublin. Expect then to read stirring travelogues should the worst happen.

Meanwhile, Sachin Tendulkar's return has brought a tentative smile to the Indian team. The word out of Bristol is the maestro rejoined the team and straightaway took to the nets to tune up for tomorrow's sudden death game against Kenya (after which every match is a sudden death encounter). Fortunately, given that the flying time between India and England is only about eight hours, jet lag shouldn't be much of a problem for Tendulkar. But even if it were, I doubt it would faze Mr Awesome. Last year, I watched him get off in Toronto after a 24-hour journey -- he'd been hauled out of a holiday in Lonavla -- step up to the wicket and make 77 against a keen Pakistani attack. The really great players seem to be able to draw on reserves ordinary ones lack. One of the most trying instances ofplaying under pressure I can recall is when the West Indies great, Gordon Greenidge, made 154 and retired hurt in a Test match (against India at St John's Antigua) as his daughter was on the deathbed. She died two days later.