In this summer of sporting dramas, every patriotic sports fan likes to think he’s done his bit to help. I went up to Manchester with my brother last Thursday and in the evening we found ourselves in an Indian restaurant with the England wicket-keeper Jonny Bairstow at the next table. I feel sure it was Edward’s and my manly cries of ‘Good luck, Jonny’ as he left that helped him bat so brilliantly for his 99 not out. Though I suppose it could have been the vindaloo that fired him up.

My major influence on the Ashes series came a few days earlier, when I bumped into the Australian all-time-great batsman and scourge of England, Steve Smith. This was on the balcony of the All England Club at Wimbledon, where he was having a quiet chat with some friends. I introduced myself to the baffled group and we all agreed that watching tennis was a welcome relief from the unbearable tension of the cricket. Then I told Smith we hoped he’d enjoy the rest of his tour but would he mind just twice at Old Trafford taking his eye off the ball. ‘That’s not going to happen!’ Polite laughter, and off we went. As sledging goes, I admit it was hardly in the Steve Waugh category. But take a look at the score book. Steve Smith scored 41 and 17. Every little helps.

And what, you may ask, was a man whose tennis peak was playing doubles for his club third team in the Middlesex League (West) doing on the balcony of the All England? It was not my low volleys that got me there, but a speech I made at a dinner some years back, for which two seats in the Royal Box, on two occasions, was the reward. I was nervous about going the first time, thinking it might be like a snobby golf club, with rules and ties and copies of the Daily Mail. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Friendliness is the house style. This begins with the chairman, Ian Hewitt, who is like everyone’s favourite uncle (you half expect him to press five bob into your hand when you’re leaving) right down to the youngsters who smilingly offer drinks and canapés.

It rubs off on the guests as well. On the day we went, these included the Covid whizz Sir Patrick Vallance, the cricketer Chris Cowdrey and the actor Sir David Suchet, who I was lucky enough to sit next to at lunch. All was jollity and light. Late in the afternoon, my son and I were invited to move down into the front row of the box. I remembered watching Wimbledon on our black and white television as a child: Roy Emerson, Manuel Santana, Christine Truman… I think I believed at the age of ten that only the royal family was allowed into the box and that some of them even lived there. Now it was us, leaning over, inches from the action, feeling like Nero at the Colosseum. At one point, Carlos Alcaraz framed one high up into the air above us. I was hoping Chris Cowdrey would get under it. To be honest, it was a pretty easy catch, but I’m sorry to report that Lady Vallance put it down.

It’s not all sport. Daily emails from my publisher remind me that I have a new book out in September. The Seventh Son is set in the modern day and it concerns a sleight of hand in a London fertility clinic. The child who is born is not like any other human. Every publication time, my publicist and I agree we’ll never do the festivals, the podcasts and all the touring grind again: too exhausting and of questionable benefit to sales. But then I remember 25 years ago when I made this point to Caroline Michel, then a young editor, now an eminence of British literary life. She replied: ‘If you don’t go, Sebastian, someone else will take your place and sell those copies.’ So I guess I’ll buckle down and hope to see you out there. Meanwhile, here’s my all-time favourite festival question: ‘Do you write with your left hand, or your right?’

British politics today offers no home to a Radical Utilitarian – or as my children insist, a Centrist Dad. A close friend of mine is a lifelong Conservative and says he’ll vote for them again. He reasons that the party has exhausted its supply of conmen and dimwits as leaders willing to corrupt, humiliate and impoverish the country. ‘Don’t look back, look ahead,’ he says. ‘Sunak’s a step up. Plus, a Starmer-Reeves government would pass a lot of silly modish laws and provoke a populist counter-movement of Faragistic ugliness on the right.’ Fair enough. But surely governments of such appalling deceit and incompetence as we’ve had lately need to be taught a lesson. And will my tiny pencil cross in the box bring them belated self-knowledge, shame and repentance? No. But, like my word in Steve Smith’s ear, it’s all I can do.