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When the England players checked into their Canterbury headquarters last night to begin their final period of preparation before the World Cup, one man sat at home with his thoughts. They would be worth a penny or two. Michael Atherton, the captain when the last World Cup was staged in the sub-continent, has many important matters to resolve, and before long he will have to come up with a few answers.

An honest man, able to enjoy life's little absurdities, Atherton may feel enough time has slipped by to laugh at the incompetence of that ill-prepared campaign in Pakistan three years ago. Alternatively, a shiver of horror may run down his spondilitic back when he recalls what a pig's ear they made of it.

If England give every impression of being a shambles at the moment, and a record of seven defeats in their last eight one-day internationals suggests they are - ahem! - short of form, they were far more inept last time. A poorly-selected and grumpy group of players found themselves at odds with the world, and Sri Lanka granted their wish to return home as soon as possible on a frightful afternoon in Faisalabad. The most vivid, and comic, memory of that match was a straight drive by Jayasuriya that plonked a ball from Phillip DeFreitas in the satellite dish on top of the pavilion.

Atherton did not endear himself to the hosts by referring to a local reporter as a ``buffoon'', and when Peter Martin, the most affable of men, offered a groundsman a wad of rupees so that England could practise on the square, the local paper ran the story the following day under a headline that is still savoured in those parts: ``Englishmen at it, again.'' Whatever Alec Stewart's players get up to in the next month, things can not possibly be worse than they were during that dismal month.

But Atherton is mulling over other matters, because his one-day career is now behind him. Selected as a member of the original 15-man party for this tournament, only to be stood down when it became clear he had no realistic hope of achieving an acceptable level of fitness, he is taking a few weeks off to reconsider what the game offers him.

He hopes to be playing again for Lancashire by the middle of this month, but that may well be a case of the wish being father to the thought. Even those close to him have serious doubts.

The only reason he is pushing himself is that he wants to play Test cricket again. Of course he does. For the last decade it has been his life. In order to do so, however, he must first convince the selectors that his back is up to it, and they have left him in no doubt that his fitness can only be proved over a sustained period of serious cricket, not a week or two. Then he must show, by sheer weight of runs, that his form warrants a place.

It will be tough on both counts. His back, which required surgery seven long years ago, will never get better and he has not scored ``business runs'' for Lancashire since his tyro days, fresh out of Cambridge. Unless he regains his Test place for the tour of South Africa later this year - and his overseas form in the last two winters hardly demands inclusion - he is never going to, and he is not the sort of chap to hang about. Atherton is sufficiently familiar with disappointment to know what Robert Frost meant when he wrote: ``No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.''

He starred for England as recently as last July, when he won that terrific encounter with Allan Donald at Trent Bridge, thereby enabling England to win a great Test match and square a rubber they went on to take. Now, as the caravan moves on, he is largely disregarded. The end, though he tries valiantly to prevent such thoughts sapping his will, may not be far away. So, as he drums his fingers on the table of his Didsbury flat, he wonders what else he can do with his life. Besides university, cricket is all he has known, and it will be hard to let it go.

He loves belonging to a team. He is a good mixer. He enjoys touring life, despite (or because of) all the hotels, planes and general clutter. He has interests in other fields, but the idea of working for a living is foreign to a man who is essentially a mature student.

He has an important ally. Jon Holmes, his agent, cherry-picks his clients and prides himself on finding media outlets for them when their playing careers have finished. Gary Lineker and David Gower have both dabbled in journalism, and found some notoriety as performers on an infantile television show.

The greatest proof of Holmes' persuasive powers - and his extensive contacts - is surely his ability to ``place'' Will Carling, whose gormless television manner should really have landed him the Archie Andrews Memorial Award at last week's Royal Television Society sports evening.

Opportunity will knock for Atherton, though whether he wishes to exploit it is another matter. He has shown little interest in a full-time writing career and is not greatly attracted by the idea of spending time in the press box with people he does not particularly like when he could be reeling in salmon from the Spey.

Nor does he have either a voice (too flat) or a manner (unexpressive) for a life before a microphone or in front of a camera. But he had better put his thinking cap on, because Holmes will make sure offers roll in like sea mist.

Despite some appearances to the contrary during the five years of his captaincy, Atherton is a sensible chap. He is not easily deceived. He knows that his back will not allow him to play for as long as he would like, and that he must decide when to stand down, with as much grace as a disappointed man can muster.