HELLO, how’s your week been? I’ve been lucky enough to have savoured top-quality sport in the flesh. And I’m still buzzing from it.  

Last weekend I was at a packed Edgbaston to savour the T20 finals day on a very hot Saturday.

Despite my ongoing reservations over the format, three intense games over nine heatwave hours — resulting in more than 1,000 runs being scored — led to silverware being decided on the very last ball. 

Two last balls if you count the unfortunate Nathan Ellis being forced to bowl an extra delivery at the end of the 20th — and final _ over of a long day. 

At that stage Lancashire were two runs short of lifting the title they had looked to be magisterially coasting towards, before James Vince’s Hampshire turned the showpiece event on its head.

A crowd of more than 23,000 watched transfixed as Hants batter Richard Gleeson played and missed at Ellis’s slower ball, as his partner at the other end, Tom Hartley, ran a bye. 

In the impending chaos, wicketkeeper Ben McDermott ran to the stumps and dislodged the bails. In the maelstrom, the umpires determined the ball was dead and a bye was awarded — meaning Vince’s side were victors by dint of a single, measly, run, that saw Hampshire crowned worthy champions. 

Cue pandemonium on the field, cue delirium in the stands. 

A second round of it at any rate, after the initial manic celebrations were curtailed after Ellis’ original no-ball. 

I don’t know how the players managed to summon the energy to cavort in joyous exultation, I was shattered and I’d only been watching. And as for those spectators, many clad in fancy dress who had been imbibing since breakfast, well, I think they deserved a medal of sorts too. 

Especially the surprisingly large number of unconvincing nuns sporting beards and drinking pints of cider I saw throughout the day. 

Speaking of fancy dress, I couldn’t work out if I was vaguely annoyed at myself for being ridiculously excited about the day’s mascot race. Or just ridiculously excited. 

As it was, the spectacle of adults dressed as a variety of random and super furry animals and objects, trampling through an assault course on hallowed pitch at a revered cricket ground, was strangely compelling for me. 

There were even echoes of Foinavon in the Grand National, as a pile-up of competitors at the first jump, allowed Lanky, Lancashire’s tall, giraffe-based entrant, race into the lead. 

It was to be symbolic of how the day would turn out for the county, as he was eventually caught and overtaken, similar to the way Hampshire pulled back their Lancastrian opponents in the final. 

In another fitting metaphor, my team’s representative, Pinky the Panther, trailed in a resounding last. Not too dissimilar to my beloved Middlesex’s T20 efforts since they won the tournament back in 2008, for their one and only victory in this format. 

Earlier in the day, at the first semi-final, I sampled my first experience of cricketing Trans-Pennine rivalry during the Roses match. 

Sadly, Yorkshire failed to overcome neighbours Lancashire, losing by six wickets, despite scoring more than 200. 

I say sadly, as readers of this column may recall I had a wonderful time at the recent Scarborough Festival, as Yorkshire lost to Surrey in the final over of their four-day county match. 

I thought of Yorkshire’s estimable opener, Adam Lyth — who I interviewed at the front of the well-appointed North Marine Road pavilion — who told me he was very much looking forward to the final. Alas, it turned out to be a case of six and out for the talented, and personable, Whitby-born batter as his side fell short. 

After such drama in Birmingham, it was onto the south coast once more later in the week, and a change of sport.

I had previously made the trip to the Brighton Community Stadium to watch Sarina Wiegman’s Lionesses comprehensively dismantle a dispirited Norway side 8-0 a few days before, so it was a no-brainer than I would return for what turned out to be a momentous quarter-final against many people’s favourites, Spain. 

What a game it turned out to be. Spain were outstanding technically. 

Their skill in keeping the ball, in passing and moving into space, their relish for possession, where every pass was concise and precise, was utterly mesmerising. 

As someone said rather surreally, they could keep the ball in a pigsty. 

But, you have to score. And when you do so, you have to, as England unapologetically did to Norway, send them packing. 

Which Spain failed to do. After Esther Gonzalez’s opener I feared the Lionesses’ journey would be over. Ready to unfurl the ‘fun while it lasted’ lines and other assorted cliches. 

However, Wiegman’s side, captained by the excellent Leah Williamson and packed with character and grit throughout the side and squad, displayed a resolve that spoke volumes for their toughness. 

They simply refused to be beaten, buoyed as they were, by Wiegman’s impressively proactive substitutions.

How many managers would be so bold enough to remove someone like Beth Mead, whose effervescence during the tournament has been one of the highlights? 

But the ruthless England boss did, replacing her with Chloe Kelly, whose brief was to operate more narrowly, immediately making the team more compact on the night. 

Wiegman then established a far greater presence in the box, with substitutes — and best pals — Ella Toone and Allessia Russo: fearlessly hooking legend Ellen White in the process. It mattered not a jot that the star striker was still hunting a goal to equal Wayne Rooney’s goalscoring record. 

It was to prove the right decision as Russo dovetailed well with Toone, before the latter fired home to equalise with a matter of minutes of normal time remaining.

For the second time in my week, cue pandemonium on the field, cue delirium in the stands.

In that well-appointed ground at Falmer I found myself lifted off my feet, shouting and punching the air at the goal. I may have even sworn with happiness on Twitter. 

Onto extra time on a hot night, and as the noise ramped up even further at an atmospheric Brighton, England pressed for the winner. Which came through Georgia Stanway’s glorious long-range strike. I haven’t celebrated so joyously a goal for ages. It was absolutely wonderful.

As was the fact, that, as someone who watched and covered women’s football when not many others did, the scenes of unbridled joy at the final whistle were testament to the continued growth of women’s football at all levels in this country and beyond.

Bramall Lane and the semi-finals await as another week of top-quality sport beckons.