Playing cricket sounds like a lovely way to make a living. Perhaps I’ll have a crack at next year’s county championship. It’s a logical move, given that my application to occupy the right midfield berth at Forest Green Rovers, mysteriously, seems to have been rejected. Unfathomable.

It could be that I am vastly underqualified to do either, I suppose. And yet, if I wanted a drive in the British F3 Championship next year, all that’s stopping me is completing one more race to obtain the right race licence, and the more significant matter of finding a quarter of a million quid.

Whether or not I have the ability to compete in F3 is, to all intents and purposes, irrelevant; if I could demonstrate sufficient competence to stay out of trouble and not embarrass myself, I could be out there.

Assuming, of course, I could find a team willing to support my endeavours, in the face of competition against faster, stronger, younger, fitter, keener, more ambitious and rather more talented competitors.

I imagine a sentence like “All right, how about I make this cheque out for a million pounds?” would do it. Funny old world, motorsport.

Let me tell you about my mate Stuart. He was a good footballer. As a kid, he was on Leyton Orient’s books, but he became more interested in going out and less interested in training. Now, refreshingly, he says: “I will never be that bloke saying ‘I could have made it’. I didn’t work hard enough. Therefore I wasn’t good enough. If I could have made it, I would have.”