Yes, there were centuries to savour, spells to admire, and a finish that quickened the pulse. And yet, I write this not because of that excitement, but in spite of it because there are higher roads to the same high, and this series took the service lane. I remain stubbornly stuck in my fool’s paradise, expecting every over-staffed Test team administration to conjure a Wasim Akram, manage a Shane Warne, unleash a Shoaib Akhtar, and luck into a Jacques Kallis. I want to treat a Siraj-like spell not as heroic, but as the expected. I’ve arranged my life so that summers in Oxford are given over to batting — being at the crease, chasing that brief illusion of batting immortality as time dissolves and the scoreboard feels like it could climb forever. This season, that spell has been snapped by hostile bowlers, unyielding wickets that make every innings feel fragile and fleeting. Which is why watching five Tests played on pitches engineered to grant batsmen eternal life, supported with such generous slip fielders, ha...