It is a mark of Ricky Ponting’s eminence as a Test batsman that his dismissal is celebrated with such abandon. At Edgbaston four years ago, his second-innings fall to Flintoff almost provoked an open-top bus parade. Yesterday was much the same, Graeme Swann tearing towards extra cover as though he had just nodded one in at Wembley, just refraining from pulling his shirt over his head. He had a lot to celebrate, the ball being one of those off-spinner’s wet dreams, pitching right on the G-spot of Mitchell Johnson’s footmarks, then piercing the gates of paradise. Just for the moment, though, it was hard to take your eyes off Ponting, motionless, looking down at the pitch, lips drawn in, and finally moving off with a sigh, head down. He didn’t remove his helmet; it was as though, at that moment, he just wanted his privacy.

Ponting had been welcomed by the now regulation boos, mixed for once with a ration of cheers. One wonders which is harder to take: the hostility or the sympathy? Hardest of all for him will be watching today, powerless to contribute. Swann, by contrast, will thrive on the memory of his wicket.