Tuesday - Five days to go.
Wednesday - Four days to go.
Thursday - Three days to go.
Friday - Two days to go.
Saturday - Tomorrow.
Sunday - Finally.
It's a burden being called Mr Cricket. I'd much rather be known as the more successful Hussey brother. Or the guy that can bat. But they're not as catchy.
I feel a bit bad leaving Australia with someone like Philip Hughes, who for all his batting skill, holds as much charisma as a dehydrated lizard. It's not his fault that he's so serious. Or boring.
But when you've played as many Tests as I have, and travelled the cricket-playing world for as long as me, you'd understand that it can get a little samey-samey. When I suggested that we try and change things up a bit - you know, like have Mitchell Johnson bowl at the wicket instead of second/third slip, or Ricky Ponting crack a smile every once in a while - they knocked me back, saying why change things that work? I also put forward the proposal of swapping the baggy green for a yellow jester hat - folks, that really didn't go down well and sort of spelled the end for me.
My heart is heavy leaving behind a once successful team that now, well, let's face it, isn't really that good. If they had only given me the captaincy (after all, I'm called Mr Cricket for a reason), instead of Pup, I would have considered sticking around for a bit longer.
But Dancing With the Stars calls. I reckon I've got a good Fox Trot in me and I've been practising my jive for months. If that doesn't work, I'm off to Celebrity Masterchef where I'm sure I can squeeze out a celebrity cook book in the following months like some of my predecessors.
Listen though folks, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. To be honest, I'm glad to be out of the whole thing.