I have decided to embrace my family’s traditions and go to a cricket match

I have a complex relationship with cricket. For years I associated it with tortuous summers in which male relatives commandeered the front room for days on end so they could watch, what, exactly? Eight hours of competitive waiting around?

I’d find myself in the garden as the shouts of “Howzat!” erupted. They came from the living room but perhaps, I imagined, the universe itself – a means to gauge my declining will to live. “How’s that?” asked the cosmos. “Rubbish!” I’d think.

When I was growing up, all the Asian kids in my neighbourhood had cricket in their lives. It was part of the furniture. But as I got older, I learned more about the sport’s history, its colonial links, Norman Tebbit’s cricket test – and cricket started to feel altogether hostile.

But this year, England is hosting the Cricket World Cup on my doorstep. I bought a ticket, hoping to embrace my family’s traditions. I can only describe the whole thing as a very English experience. It chucked it down in the morning, postponing play. Attendees were told a shorter match could occur if the weather cleared up, and so began the wait. Eventually the sun appeared: umbrellas came down, fans banged drums and danced tipsily, umpires filled the field as players milled around. Finally the announcement came over the PA: “This match has been abandoned.” Five hours of talking about the weather, and then we all went home.

Related: Is starting my first diet the most adult thing I've ever done? | Coco Khan

Still, watching an empty piece of grass for several hours gives you time to think. And I felt that I finally understood the appeal. It’s the pleasure of slowness, of sitting still and enjoying one thing at a time – the heat of the sun, the sound of leather on willow, the joy of a book when play is paused; and the absurd bemusement at how the English invented a sport you still can’t play in the rain.