Jennie (Jennie Walker, that is) is in a state of mild shock. We met over the road, in the Queen Adelaide, this evening. And what happened in the early hours of this morning in the other Adelaide, over in Australia, she has yet to come to terms with. This is not how the men of England, as she’s come to know them, go about things. The odd flash of genius or luck, yes; even the occasional victory, when it doesn’t count because the whole thing’s been settled already; but to roll over Australia in such a comprehensive, professional manner was simply not on the cards.
Muddle, administrative incompetence, a lot of running around and shaking of heads – this is what she’s used to. The World Cup exit in the summer she found wholly unsurprising. To date, it’s been the gap between the hype, the possibility, and how things actually play out that has held her interest. Now she looks at the men walking into the pub with a cock-of-the-walk swagger and she’s not sure about this at all. Don’t panic, I tell her, there are still three games to come. But I can see why she’s worried.