A few months back, my elderly boss was rushed into hospital for emergency hernia surgery, leaving me to – quite literally – mind the shop. Among the many regular customers to inquire as to her whereabouts was a guy who introduced himself as the vicar at one of the local churches. He went on to explain that he often visited my boss to pray with her. So far, so multicultural Mill Road (my boss is a Pakistani Muslim), but the irony klaxon started blaring when he said that they prayed for her health. I tactfully swallowed a “that worked well,” and expected him to leave it at that. Instead, he asked if he could pray with me.

Me: “No. I’m a staunch atheist.”

Vicar: “Come on. What harm will it do?”

Me: “What good would it do?”

Vicar: “That’s 50/50.”

Me: “Not sure they’d set those odds up the road at Coral.”

Vicar: “But I believe Jesus can heal us.”

Me: “Fair enough. But I don’t.”

Vicar: “Why not?”

Me: “Because it’s irrational. Illogical. It’s like thinking that tapping on this door three times will somehow ensure my health.”

Vicar: “Well, do you mind if I come in and pray?”

Me: “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Vicar: “Are you suffering? Do you have pain anywhere in your body?”

(Only my tongue, from biting on it so hard.)

Me: “No.”

Vicar: “Bad back? We can pray for that.”

Me: “Yeah. I do, as it goes, but I do stretches and I’ve seen my osteopath. It’s not that bad that I would consider praying.”

Vicar: “So you don’t have faith.”

Me: “I have faith. I have faith that the ground is down there and the sky’s up there. I have faith in my osteopath.”

Now, eight weeks into the cricket season, I am adhering to a superstition that I know is every bit as irrational as religious faith.

The first game of the season was bittersweet. The thawing of personal disappointment into the warmth of team victory is particular to cricket, as a duck in a famous win away to last year’s league champions, Ramsey, reminded me. Hindered by a sinus infection, the following days were full of doubt. Was leaving Camden – the only club I’d ever played for – the right thing to do? Could I still play at this level? Could I adapt to batting at five? The next game, after the relief of getting off the mark, I went on to score 41 in a drawn match. I’d had a chicken kebab from ABC Barbecue the night before. Yes, vicar, I’ve had one every Friday since. And we’re still unbeaten. No more ducks, either. But, vicar, my back’s gone again. Something went while I was taking off my waterproof trousers. So I haven’t played for the last three weeks. Stuck to the Friday night kebab routine, though. I’m as guilty of irrationality as the next man.

There are some superstitions that last forever. I have to have a red grip on my bat, for example. But some superstitions come and go. Part of me enjoys it when they are revealed as ridiculous. Confirmation that the outcome of a cricket match has nothing to do with chicken kebabs will come as a relief. Unless we stay unbeaten…