My brown couch - the ''thing'' anchored in Position A in front of the cricket - is taking a beating.
I hear that in midsummer the healthy should be out in God's fresh air frolicking o'er hill and dale, or pulling on their waders for trout bothering.
But such frivolity is simply not on for the sports purist. In midsummer, duty requires we mount camp in front of the telly to monitor matters of national importance as they unfold at the tennis, the golf, and most importantly, at proper cricket.
I'll speak plainly about ''proper'' cricket. While one-day games sneak into its definition, they sit below test matches.
We exclude the twenty-over abomination, which is a sad attempt by administrators to curry favour with the mindless. (I hear the twenty20 blokes may soon introduce cage fighting between overs, but will try jelly wrestling first).
Mind you, cricket has been going to the dogs for quite some time. In 1832, the Young Cricketer's Guide complained that cricket had gone downhill since the glory days of the 1770s. The fatheads had ruined it by introducing a third stump.
In a sense, cricket is organised loafing. And if you asked the average man on the couch who has the best job on earth, he'd put down his pie, blow the froth off his Emerson's, and tell you straight: ''A cricket commentator - they're paid to sit round all day and argue with their mates.''
''Ian Smith, Mark Richardson, Simon Doull. They get the best seats, everyone sucks up to them, and they love it all. Listen to Danny Morrison - he's been wittering on for years, and still sounds like a kid with a new chemistry set.
''I tell you what - I could do their job better. Just listen to all their mistakes. The stuff-ups, the drivel, the tired cliches. Yeah, give me the chance and.''
I suppose commentators deserve a modicum of sympathy. It can't be a total cakewalk prattling live and unedited from coin toss till stumps.
And it must be taxing taking the first overs after lunch, when it would be too easy to do a Tony Greig. The former England captain, noting that a batsman seemed stuck in his crease against the spinners, observed: ''It must be at the back of his mind that he could march down the piss and mitch one.''
Radio commentators, now an endangered species, had the tougher job because with no pictures, they had to tell it all, right down to the seagulls' luncheon at fine leg. The strain showed, even with the finest.
When a bowler captaining England decided to change the attack, the BBC's Brian Johnson announced: ''Illingworth has just relieved himself at the pavilion end.''
The ABC's Alan McGilvray, old-fashioned and a touch po-faced, managed: ''It's been a weekend of delight and disappointment for (the then Australian captain) Kim Hughes. His wife presented him with twins yesterday, and a duck today.''
I suspect the reason Ian Botham never got to share a commentary box with Rod Marsh, the larrikin Aussie keeper, was fear of the consequences of putting two of the game's best sledgers together. They had history.
Marsh, (greeting Botham, arriving at the wicket): ''How's your wife, and my kids?''Botham: ''The wife's OK, but the kids are retarded.''
Like the rest of you layabouts, I know I could step into the commentary box easily. And I'd happily serve an apprenticeship filling the pot for the Dilmah Tea Party. But I'm also professionally qualified.
I played representative cricket, a fact that has been missed by the sluggards at the NZ Cricket Almanac. I was vice-captain of the Thames Valley Under 13s, the troop of wizened hardmen who thrashed South Auckland.
I ought to have been captain, but there was a boy from Katikati who could bowl faster. Such is life.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
