I don't mind watching until, say 1am, but then the sandman calls and I want my kip. But my wife is such a fan she follows the lads to the very last ball. This has created real problems in our marriage. After various negotiations and experiments we have come to a solution reminiscent of the scene in It Happened One Night where Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, forced to share a bedroom, rig up a sheet as a screen between them.

We have a similar arrangement. On one side of the sheet I try to get my eight hours. On the other my deranged wife watches the telly. What she does is turn the sound down and listen to the radio commentary with headphones. The other refinement is that she switches the lights off and watches in the dark. The other morning in the wee small hours I was awakened by a small earthquake, which I later discovered was my wife celebrating the captain's century. However, in that befuddled moment betwixt sleeping and waking all I could see was a flickering blue light in the room. For a moment I thought I was sleeping with a police car.

I have contemplated counselling, particularly since the daynighters don't start until 1.30am. Alternatively I might compose a letter to an agony aunt, but who would believe it? Actually I admire her unequivocal support for England. More than that, I envy her. It has been a simple matter to become cynical about our team over the past decade or so, much more difficult to be a true fan and support through thick and thin.

MARY has been at her best in Australia, where it has not been easy supporting England in recent years. I must say I pretend I am not with her when she turns up dressed in red, white and blue and carrying a Union Jack. There was one famous occasion at Sydney when we looked like losing a one-day match that I deserted her and took to the bar while she continued her fervent and lone support for a lost cause. One of my fellow drinkers pointed to her waving the Union Jack and said: ``Who's the Sheila?'' ``Never saw her before in my life,'' I said.

Shortly after, with England needing 18 off the last over and Bruce Reid bowling, Allan Lamb smacked him all over the park to win a match which only my wife knew was a racing certainty from the first ball bowled. Such loyalty puts doubt to flight. She believes we are going to beat the Aussies this season. It is not an informed opinion, more a declaration of faith.

Having said that, I don't want you to imagine she is an ignoramus with merely a crush on flannelled fools. She wasn't a bad player herself. In fact there was a time in her late thirties when she was the best mother of three seam-up bowler and pinch-hitter in Maidenhead and district, if not Berkshire. After watching her bowl in our garden and then visiting our local cricket ground, no less an authority than Jack Fingleton said she should be playing for Maidenhead and Bray in the Thames Valley League. Having watched our team last season, I would say she has even more chance nowadays of making the side.

Fingo bought her a rose bush. It was, he avowed, a Geoffrey Boycott Rose, because it was white and very slow to mature. She tends it still. Looking at the television guide I don't think I am going to get much sleep between now and March 4. One down, four to go. Four nights of a partitioned bed and flickering shadows on the wall.

I wonder if members of the MCC would stand for such an arrangement. More to the point, are they allowed to be in bed with a woman while watching cricket on the telly? I expect the answer is not if wearing MCC pyjamas. But it is an important issue. Worth a working party at least.