Liz Breslin

Having exhausted every other angle on rugby this week, Liz Breslin's family started chatting about concussion tests.

We put a lot of store by happiness - whether we know it or not, Liz Brezlin writes.

At the end of the day, my wise Irish friend used to say, there is always the night, Liz Breslin writes.

In the years I spent tefling - teaching English as a foreign language - there were plenty of memorable times, mostly arising from linguistic mix-ups or sudden moments of clarity, especially when tefling in English-speaking countries with a whole range of cultures sorted according to how well they could conjugate and idiomise.

I do like a good conspiracy theory. Who really killed JFK? Who shot JR? Questions that keep you hanging on the edge of your seat until the next series or the newest wave of evidence/fabrication come into play.

My granddad taught me how to bowl. A cricket ball, of course; for him there was no other sport. I remember standing in the back garden, the smell of cardigan wafting from behind me, his big hands over mine.

Liz Breslin spills the beans on her trip to the formerly top-secret Bletchley Park.

As far as I can tell, there is no official mental disorder relating to sports fanaticism.