By the time we checked in for the flight at around 7.30pm, I was clinging on and clinging to the idea that I might be able to get on the plane and once aboard, maybe the feelings would go ... We went through to the departure lounge and I made my way with Steffan and Jason to the nearest coffee bar. I ordered a bacon and egg sandwich and as I finished the last bite, time stopped for a millisecond. In that blink of the mind I was cooked and I knew it. Sensing I could go at any second, I was desperate to get up from the table and get away from the other two lads because I never liked breaking down in front of other people. I managed to get as far as Dixons. “Oh, God.”

I rang Sarge, and asked him to come and meet me straight away, although I didn't tell him why ... Later he told me: “To see a grown man in this state was quite tough.” At first he tried to talk me round. “Marcus,” he said. “You've got to fight it. You've got to get yourself over this wall.”

In between the sobs and tears I told him: “Andy, I'd love to be able to do it but I'm not sure I can. I don't want to get over to Dubai and f**k it up and have to come home again. That is the last thing I want to do. I'd rather walk away from it now than go over there, then have to get the flight home again, because I've done that twice before and it causes me so much pain.”

Andy and I walked out of Dixons and found a corridor which was a bit more private. Jason had joined us but by now Andy had realised that his original approach was doomed.

It's hard to say how long it took for the symptoms of my illness to subside enough to allow me some clear air to think about something, anything, other than how awful I was feeling. But when the moment came, so did certain truths and the most hurtful one was this: I could never again contemplate the possibility of playing cricket for my country, the love of my professional life.

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