England's collective psyche continues to be a thing of baffling wonder. At an arctic Old Trafford yesterday, and with an abject tournament behind them, they looked as though they were strutting maestros of the genre.

Mind you, however much the cheesed-off Zimbabweans cursed themselves in defeat, ensured already of a place in the final tomorrow week, they had obviously found it mighty difficult to tap the adrenalin in this wintry waste. England however will reckon themselves out of the familiar doldrums and now fancy fair winds behind them to give the tourists another seeing-to in the final.

On his home paddock, Andrew Flintoff seized the day and clobbered England past the post in double quick time. He has had a bewildering week and apparently had been threatened with all sorts of sanctions for being overweight.

On the scorecard at number eight, the England management defiantly sent him in first wicket down. The young man uneasily edged a couple, essayed two more airy whiffs, but then began to find the middle of his meaty bat. Some middle, some meat. Thrillingly he struck out for home with withering power and was 42 not out off just 45 balls, delighting the Manchester crowd, huddled in their winter greatcoats.

Flintoff did not bowl yesterday. He did not need to. England were dead-eyed in the field, and Mullally and Ealham totally stifled the Zimbabwe innings so just nothing could get out. The afternoon session became as dour as a Test match - all played out in a pin-drop silence.

The Christmas weather did not help. This was the first day-night floodlit international ever held on home soil. In the event, any bulbs were scarcely needed. Those who braved it would have swapped any lights for a radiator.