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Since coming into the team late last year, he has, along with Rory Burns, provided solidity at the top of the order – something the Test side has been crying out for in the post-Strauss era, Alastair Cook getting through more partners than a Dallas divorcee with a serious case of “Tinder finger”. Take the case of Dom Sibley, whose century against West Indies in July, and general approach to batting, has divided opinion. They are the tractor-on-a-country-lane, the tourist-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-escalator, the dial-up-dinosaurs in a fibre-optic-world. This “going-nowhere brigade” invite a particular kind of opprobrium. Not to be confused with the “cooly unhurried” or the “romantically languid”, the stonewallers are a maligned and chastised few. In the modern game they are lesser spotted than the Yeti, and almost as abominable. Cricket has almost as many for its own increasingly rare sight. Wenceslasaire, spangladasha… shnamistoflopp’n − the Inuits are said to have 500 words for snow. Now, slow is desirable, slow is profitable, slow is cool. For the dopamine-demanding generation whose working week is all hustle and bustle, when the weekend lands they make sure to “‘grab” their coffee in a place where the bricks are self-consciously exposed, there’s a penny farthing strung up on the wall like a deposed dictator and the bloke lovingly grinding the beans looks like Wyatt Earp. O ne sort-of-quaint-but-largely-hollow response to the rampant charge of the human race towards mass-everything-ness has been to embrace the artisanal – the handpicked, the handcrafted, the handwoven.