Our taxi driver last night - a frighteningly coolman called Frankie, who cites former Kent wicketkeeper Alan Knott as his hero - asked me about the whole Pietersen saga.
Days later, I'm still appalled that a magnificent sprinter like Johnson, a thoughtful and well-spoken fellow, a noble man-god, would lose his cool in a rivalry of words with a cheap, two-dollar-pistol-of-a-sprinter named Maurice Greene.
