It’s the week of the Adelaide Test and a vital plank in my psychological preparation is a drive up to the Barossa to see Mum and Dad.

Late morning, I steer along Gomersal Road which seems pot-hole free. Not before time. I’m listening to Classic FM as lots of New Year resolution lists recommend this as a calming strategy. Rachmaninov does seem more soothing than Rammstein.

Arriving at my parents’ home we chat about the following: cricket, Dad’s bowls, my park running, cricket, recent holidays, my wife Claire’s work, immediate family, our 101-year-old neighbour, cricket, extended family, and the weather including how the cool summer has meant Claire and I have done limited beach swimming.

At long last, we get to the topic of cricket.

Prior to this I luncheoned at the Tanunda Bakery and Café as part of my endless investigation into our state’s sausage roll situation. I planned to write contemporary sausage roll situation but it’s difficult to eat historical (without frozen foodstuffs from decades past) and future samples.

Inside the busy bakery someone asked cautiously if there was a queue. Another replied rather unaccommodatingly that there wasn’t, and furthermore it was entirely the responsibility of each customer to establish their spot in the order and guarantee its integrity. This seemed especially burdensome for a Monday, so I decided instead to join the apparent and flawless queue adjacent to the counter. Like many queues over the previous millennium, it worked rather well.

There were no unpleasant incidents during those 87 seconds I waited to make my purchase.

I ventured outside to the shady patio. It was inviting with tables and chairs, and being the Barossa, a wooden wine barrel. For my continued safety and mystical comfort, I chose to eat by the wine barrel.

Just like most of the Tanunda footballers I encountered during my youth as a Kapunda Bomber, my sausage roll was compact and appeared competent.

A second glance was disappointing for the baked good looked a little diminished although I’m prepared to concede this might be a function of the contemporary consumer experience in which we expect everything to be excessively large including our cars, our beverages and of course, our schnitzels.

My first bite. Innocuous. Waiting for the delicious arrival of delicate spice and accompanying waft of pepper. It didn’t happen or perhaps is hugely delayed, giving me a minor zing tomorrow. The pastry was also only adequate.

Now we all know well that a sausage roll can be a cylindrical joy, a triumphant midday flourish. Either way the model in front of me, in the heart of the Barossa, was dissatisfactory.

Like Ted Mulry, I then jumped in my car and drove to Mum and Dad’s. There was cricket to chat about.

My sausage roll was purposeful rather than flavoursome. Admittedly, I had significant expectations, but these were mostly not met.

Three cricket bats out of five.