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These days between the end of the World Cup and the start of the first Test seem like the longest tea interval of all time.

It is all right for Steve Waugh, still picking pieces of Melbourne tickertape out of his barnet, or for Inzamam-ul-Haq, still removing his rockery from his front room after taking note of the views of his hitherto enthusiastic home supporters - the curtain on their northern hemisphere summer has definitely descended. England supporters, however, left behind to pick up the pieces of the 1999 season, are allegedly drifting in a Sargasso Sea of anti-climax.

Since the Australians arrogantly swept Pakistan aside, there has been a fair amount of cricket news, and indeed a reasonable number of games played, but it is proving hard to get worked up over the Super Cup or Oxford v Cambridge. Even the dramatic changes in the England set-up haven't gripped in the way they should - maybe because they should have been more dramatic still or because many feel that the forthcoming series against New Zealand will not prove anything unless England are soundly beaten, of course.

Nasser's England need a stiffer opening challenge, is the conventional wisdom. This is probably grossly unfair to New Zealand. After all, they were World Cup semi-finalists. In a way, it is also unfair to England. Just about the only good thing about being rotten at something is that expectations are not very high and even a modest achievement can be hailed as a massive triumph.

England have managed simultaneously to be hailed as a pretty mediocre side and yet are also under extraordinary pressure to beat a team who have just performed far better than they have in cricket's most important tournament. This is an extraordinarily sophisticated but tragic kind of double that only England could pull off.

Another problem facing Englishmen who long for a return to 1981 or 1986-87 (or even to last summer's squeaking home against the South Africans) is that it is absolutely impossible to get worked up into a lather of Kiwi-hatred. Not only are they good blokes, they have never quite reached a position of consistent cricketing superiority over England which entitles them to fully fledged resentment. Furthermore, it will be difficult not to wish the admirable Roger Twose a series of unmitigated glory.

I can recall feeling desperately sorry for John Reid's 1958 side, who were crushed time and time again by Peter May's mean machine (actually a terribly polite machine). I felt the same the following year when India were the victims. In between, however, was the small matter of an Ashes series in Australia in which Richie Benaud demolished England's finest by four wins to none. I would not have felt sorry for the Australians had that score been reversed.

I very much hope England will forge the beginning of a new era against New Zealand but am clearly an Englishman of the type John Cleese berated so brilliantly in A Fish Called Wanda, unable to stifle my innate guilt and love of the underdog (unless England are the underdogs). This will score me lots of points at the Pearly Gates but none at the Grace Gates. So I am relying on Nasser and company to draw 2-2 with panache, charm and skill, honing their skills in preparation for a 5-0 wipe-out of South Africa in the winter.

Whatever the result of the series, let us hope that it reminds established cricket fans, and educates new ones who have been rightly entranced by the World Cup, that there is another great form of the game besides the one-day thrillers. It was only a couple of months ago that Australia and West Indies fought one of the most gripping Test rubbers of all time, which must have done much more for cricket in the Caribbean than did their team's recent efforts in England. The second half of summer in England '99 is by no means fated to be a let-down.

Mention of the Grace Gates prompts a thought about the guardians of same, and of many other entrances and exits at cricket's headquarters. In over 40 years of egress and entrance thereof, I have never once encountered anything other than co-operation and politeness from the chaps manning these posts, and this week it was a pity to see none other than Mike Atherton in journalist mode promulgating the myth that these fellows are a stroppy bunch. There are certainly many more awkward customers within the ranks of those entitled to waltz into the Lord's Pavilion.

I feel extremely guilty about that last statement.