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On my journey home on Sunday afternoon I missed Chalk Farm by two tube stops. Rattling home from the Oval I was in a dark tunnel of despair in more ways than one.

Like the sad and sorry London Underground, English cricket needs a more than a cosmetic overhaul.

The day began with such hope, and just like any devoted cricket fan I didn't doubt for one second that by three o'clock we would see the team on the balcony celebrating as series victors. Mike Atherton and Graham Thorpe were still there, only Darren Maddy and Nasser Hussain were back in the pavilion, and just 155 runs stood between us and jubilation.

The Barmy Army were in fine voice. ``We're the mighty, mighty England,'' they sang. Little children clutched their fours and sixes, their fathers certain they were about to share in a supreme sporting moment. The sun was shining over the gasometer and the grand old Oval buzzed with anticipation.

Even as Mark Ramprakash began his long walk to the middle, I was still daring to believe in the impossible. When he was caught behind, off the first ball he faced, I felt as panic-stricken as a climber on a rockface who realises the safety line has snapped.

By lunch there was nothing to cling to and when the end came it was so quick that blokes with beers were still making their way back to their seats from the lunch-time bar queue.

In their hearts they knew defeat would not be long, and all they could do was simply stand there, pints in hand, rooted to the spot, paralysed by disappointment and disbelief that the worst had actually happened.

In the television truck parked at the Vauxhall End I watched as our cameras panned the crowd. The director called out the camera numbers. ``Two'', and there was the incongruous picture of a fan dressed as a caveman shaking his head sadly. ``Fifteen'', a shot of a little boy looking pleadingly at his mum. ``Nine'', a couple staring blankly at the awful truth of the scoreboard.

In contrast, the Oval's not unsizeable Kiwi contingent had begun their celebration. Lads with their arms aloft holding the New Zealand flag, a girl rolling in ecstasy on the grass at full stretch, another, rather touchingly, plucked a tuft of grass from the turf and handed it to her jubilant boyfriend.

In another month this shattering defeat will be a distant memory and our attention will turn to the winter tour of South Africa. After a summer covering an England Test series you become pretty frustrated by the failures of the England team, but ultimately you remain fond of a bunch of sportsmen who strive to do their best.

In my first summer at the sharp end they have been co-operative and respectful. To them, as they ponder the challenge ahead in South Africa, I quote Ian Botham from Simon Hughes' book A Lot of Hard Yakka: ``Do you want it or don't you? If you do, go out and get it.''