Last night the discussion at the cigar bar was all about the progress of the match between Australia and New Zealand, going on at that moment, which would determine the world championship in cricket.
The winner gets all the sheep they want.
.dot.dot.dot.
Actually, I had two wishes for the entire championship, one of which was met, one of which wasn't.
Firstly, Pakistan shouldn't stand even a chance. And they didn't. They went down ingloriously in flames, totally wupped, slaughtered, beaten, smashed, and destroyed, before they got anywhere near the finals.
Secondly, it would be jolly nice if India won. But they didn't. Only thus far, and no further. India was defeated by Australia, and consequently the final battle was between countries with goofy accents.
In truth, we didn't really discuss cricket. Barely even talked about it.
If I hadn't brought it up, no one would have said a thing.
To the best of my knowledge, no other sports were mentioned. Which is a mighty good thing. Sports are boring. Whether or not sheep are involved.
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