Cricket lies on the back burner for this week's entry, as there's only so much vitriole one person can bring himself to spew about Ian Bell's incessant tendency to look a million dollars and then play a shot straight from a Closing Down Sale. So I'm saving myself from recycling any number of cliches about choirboys and headlights, and wondering about what, in general, contributes to skills either thriving or disintegrating under pressure.

It's now more than six months since I moved to Oxford (or, to be more accurate, I was moved by parents due to my broken bones rendering me unable to drive). I think now, for the first time, I'm reaching the stage where I'm beginning to feel part of Oxfordshire, rather than on-loan from Devon.

This weekend I've been in the Lake District, partially underwater and also having my tent upended... More next weekend.

I told you this week would be more interesting than last. Alright, I've still barely had the time to scribble this down around about a workload that I'm not going to whinge about on here, because I knew it would be like this when I signed the contract, but there's a lot more cricket on, at least.

It's Sunday morning, 11.34. I've got 26 minutes spare in which to compose this week's musings, for that's about the sum total of my free time between now and this time next week.

A little bit of double meaning in this week's column. Firstly, a short update on last week's musings, and then a few thoughts on the lifeblood of amateur societies the world over, the committee.

It's remarkable how two miles and two weeks can spin your life around on its axis, thrusting you from one side of a situation into the other, and forcing you to question everything you think, and everything you believe in.

It occurred to me this afternoon that I'd never bothered to properly introduce myself in last week's column. So for those of you who've never found yourself being triggered by my right index finger, here's the first draft of my autobiography.