Where were you when...

You always remember where you were, and you're so rarely where you'd hope to have been, so rarely with others who care as you do. When seismic - to you - events occur, you're so rarely with those who share your devastation or exultation, so often surrounded by others eating or opening a window or just walking dully along.

Given how much cricket I've watched over the past 30 years, both live and on television, the answer to the question where were you when… should be "sitting in front of the telly", or, perhaps more accurately, "sitting at my desk pretending to work near the telly". It never is.

Where were you when Steve Harmison bowled Michael Clarke with a slower ball? I was in a taxi leaving Wycombe v Carlisle with a Pakistani taxi driver who hated cricket.

Where were you when Harmison took 7 for 12 against West Indies? I was walking back to Manchester station after seeing City beat United 4-1 despite playing Robbie Fowler and Jon Macken up front.

Where were you when Ricky Ponting resisted for almost a day at Old Trafford? I was in a hotel in St Alban's, waiting to interview England footballers while everybody wondered if the woman at the bar was the one off Big Brother who'd done the thing with the bottle.

Where were you when Devon Malcolm took 9 for 57 against South Africa? I was at Sunderland 1 Millwall 1.

Where were you when Geraint Jones caught Michael Kasprowicz down the leg side? I was on a stifling train heading to Cardiff for the Community Shield.

At least in those instances I'd been watching or covering sport. It might have been vaguely absurd that I was sent to report on Wycombe v Carlisle, but I was at work as surely as if I'd been in an office. (It went badly: Wycombe dominated, the game finished 1-1, and at 29 I was by some way the oldest of the three reporters at the Carlisle manager Paul Simpson's press conference. "Bit of luck went your way today, then, Paul?" "What do you mean?" "Well, they hit the post three times." "I'm not having that. Luck? No way. Does hitting the post count as a goal now?" "Cheers, Paul.")

Where were you when Stuart Broad took 8 for 15 and Australia were bowled out for 60 in 111 balls? Well, my cleaner comes on a Thursday, so I was intending to follow it on my laptop in a local café, but then the touchpad went and I spent a few minutes fiddling around with it before deciding it was broken, by which time Twitter on my phone was telling me Australia were three down.

I couldn't work but my cleaner was still at home, so I went to Curry's to get the laptop fixed, only to find out the warranty had run out two weeks ago and it would cost about a third of the price of a new laptop to get it fixed. So I decided, given there were various other glitches with the old machine and it would take a week to fix, to just get a new one. Because this was Curry's, where one member of staff points at the stock, another one gets it from the warehouse, another one takes your payment and another one does a security check before you leave the store, buying a new laptop, a decision that took roughly 20 seconds - "What's like this one but works?" - led to a process that took half an hour. By the time I left, Australia were all out.

What made it worse was that I'd been in a shop that sold televisions. I'd been able to see perhaps 40 screens simultaneously. None of them were showing cricket. I remember when shopping with my parents as a kid being sent to the TV department specifically to watch cricket. But now, I was told, it's not policy to show actual channels. Instead, televisions in shops show "packages" designed to exhibit their best features. Behold, the hummingbird! Behold, a generic clip of Premier League football! Behold, Downton Abbey!

When Bob Willis was ripping though Australia at Headingley in 1981, it's said England came to a standstill and you could see people on motorways grinning at their radios. When Broad ripped through them at Trent Bridge in 2015, England had somewhere to get to and plodded calmly on, while the screens in TV shops showed Hugh Bonneville in a bow-tie looking mildly perplexed.

Where were you when Broad took 8 for 15? I was looking at Twitter in the world's most frustrating shop, reverently, passionately waiting, while the staff skated on, not particularly bothered it was happening. Perhaps the salesman heard the splash, the forsaken cry, but for him it was not an important failure.