A chatter of adjectives

"Is that Flintoff coming out? We'd better get the beers in ..."

There can't have been many better-timed bar-runs this season. The time was roughly ten-past-twelve, and things were fairly morose around the perimeter of Lord's. Out in the middle, England had lost three wickets while stodging along at barely that many runs an over, and the low-key atmosphere reflected the state of play. In a match that England couldn't afford to lose, they hardly seemed to know how to win.

But with Flintoff waiting in the wings - even a semi-fit Flintoff - you know it's better to have a full pint at your disposal than none at all. Because if all goes to plan, you won't want to leave your seat for a top-up. But if it all goes belly-up, then at least you can drown your sorrows in double-quick time.

So it was that four prescient souls from the Edrich Stand set off through the crowds to locate the beer tent. They weren't exactly fuelled with optimism: in fact, sarcasm seemed their tipple of choice, judging by their matching white T-shirts with the words "Bring back Caddick!" emblazoned across the back. But credit to them, nonetheless - they sensed there were fireworks afoot.

Not many of the other punters did, to be honest. The pattern of the series - lose the toss, lose the match - had caused much of the crowd to lose temporary interest as well. For all Tino Best's showmanship, the only bowlers attracting an animated audience were the pumped-up teenagers at the Nursery End of the ground, where NatWest had erected an inflatable net complete with speed gun. The race for pace was resulting in some fairly shocking waywardness - like Shoaib Akhtar at Matt Hayden's benefit match - but on this wicket at least, the spectators could enjoy watching the ball disappearing to all parts.

Two hours later, however, Flintoff and Andrew Strauss had transformed the picture entirely. Having greeted the halfway mark of the innings with resignation, now the entire ground was tucking into lunch with (gentleman's) relish. From the picnickers on the Nursery Ground, to the Pimms-and-panama brigade in the Harris Garden behind the pavilion, even as far as the corpulent hospitality area in the indoor school; the whole of Lord's was a chatter of adjectives.

"Tremendous," announced one egg-and-bacon-clad onlooker, as he sipped his champers on the lawn behind the museum. "Stupendous," echoed his canape-nibbling companion. "Absolutely top banana," agreed a young chap in an England rugby shirt, although he might just have been taking the puree. Over the hubbub floated a lone dissenting voice: "I just hope those last four wickets don't come back to haunt us." In the circumstances, it was admirable pessimism, but in the final analysis it proved to be uncannily accurate.

Either way, it had been a something-for-everyone afternoon. Flintoff, the people's champion, had mown his second century in as many matches, while Strauss, aka Lord Brocket; captain of Middlesex and MCC's man to the manor born, had taken his tally to two hundreds and an 80 in three international innings at Lord's. Next week, Twenty20 cricket makes its long-awaited Lord's debut. If today's thrills and spills are anything to go by, the members will be pogo-ing in the Long Room before long.