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.