With my fractionally disappointing run of form with the bat, I haven't so much reassessed as moved the decimal point in my batting goals. This has afforded me an embarrassing amount of free time this season and enabled me to compare notes and set the cricketing world to rights with numerous people on the circuit. Apologies to one and all for boring them beyond belief. But particularly to that charming lady who makes the members' teas at Darlington. Quite why she would be interested in how I closed my stance and am trying to keep my left elbow higher I'll never know. The meat pie however was delicious.

Earlier this summer Kent played Sussex at Horsham and during discussions with the opposition I stumbled upon the perfect set of goals. Mark Robinson, one of nature and cricket's gentlemen and the epitome of the honest professional, spelt his out. He was hoping to ``do the double'' this season - 100 runs and 100 wickets - he wanted to bat for long enough in one innings to be able to call for a change of gloves and he wanted to pull a recognised bowler in front of square.

He did actually pull me in front of square but so have Steve Barwick, Andy Afford and Devon Malcolm. Dev's was more of an enormous deposit than a pull, so Mark's interpretation of 'recognised bowler' needs careful examination.

Kent have recently returned from a 15-day road trip taking in Old Trafford, Darlington, and Lord's. We were beaten by Durham in the championship, we didn't even get to see the unveiling of the brick train, we lost to Middlesex in the NatWest and Lancashire beat us in the Sunday League. None of these defeats were the low point of the trip for me.

Previous lows included: being caught at third man to register a king pair against Glamorgan, running from silly point to short fine leg in order to back the wicketkeeper up during a potential run-out and putting my foot through the grille of the helmet lying on the ground behind the 'keeper and coming a cropper, etc, etc . . .

I've also had some embarrassing dismissals, swingingly wildly at a ball down leg side against Oxford University, missing it, then hitting it during my follow through as the ball bounced up off my thigh pad and offering a regulation catch to second slip.

But during our Sunday League game at Old Trafford I managed a combination of the two. I went out to bat with the side in some trouble, against Wasim Akram, who was troubled by a shoulder injury. Wasim had looked to be getting it through all right but the bowler always looks quicker from side on.

Looks were not deceptive. I played an almost perfect forward defensive only to watch the ball bounce, nip back, hit me on the point of the right elbow and bounce down into my stumps. The dismissal was disappointing but less important than the fact that I had obviously broken my right arm in more than one place.

I picked my bat up with my left hand (the bat had been dramatically jettisoned at the point of impact) and limped off. It was clear to everyone that this was a career-threatening injury. Lawrie Brown, Lancashire's excellent physio, rushed to the pavilion steps muttering about X-rays, someone carried my bat and helmet and there was genuine sympathy from the crowd. The dressing room was hushed - obviously I would miss the B & H final - and I felt physically sick.

Lawrie put some ice on my elbow and tried to move my arm, expecting screams of pain and no mobility. I winced, the ice was cold, and somewhat surprisingly had full movement. I'd been hit on the funny bone and after a couple of minutes of intense discomfort everything was fine.

Ironically, Wasim's shoulder had seized up completely. Embarrassed? Yes, and only marginally more so than the day before when some wag had shouted: ``Are you Iain Dowie in disguise?''