A DODGY START to the day with threatening clouds, a wet pitch and no captain –Tom Bird was looking for his kit apparently, which was odd as his kit is one box and a pair of whiteish trousers. I tossed up in a 35 over game with their skipper George Winters, lost, and they elected to bat. Sensible decision, the pitch was going to play nicely by the afternoon. This was very much a family affair. Their XI boasted two Winters brothers, both very good batsmen, and father Martin who played for Harrow, albeit when Stanley Baldwin was PM. On our side we had my nephew Tom and me, and his son Cassius, nearly three, who brought his bat. His fielding would have been useful. Someone said that Adam is deceptive in the field, he looks slow, but is in fact very very slow. This is unkind and I promised not to repeat it.

Martin was the only man on their team over 40. We had 6 or so. Two of whom opened, Rupert and Nick Emley. Their bowling was surprisingly benign for such virile young men, perhaps in deference to the venerability of our openers. Rupert was bowled trying to force the pace and a new player, Anthony Ramsden, came in, a mate of Jack Cooke-Hurle’s. Almost immediately he snicked one twixt first slip and keeper. A foot either side and our day would have been different.

He set about the bowling, ably assisted by Nick who was cutting with venom. Rarely have we seen so dominant an innings. Anthony had all the shots, and hit them with power. But to prove he was no merciless destroyer of placid bowling on a placid pitch he struck a leg glance for 4 that needed the mastery and skill of a Gower. In an innings of 81 of almost chanceless runs he hit eleven 4s, and three sixes off three consecutive balls! He and Nick put on 120 runs, with Nick’s patiently crafted innings of 46 an invaluable contribution. Thereafter Jack (30, two 4s and a 6) and Tom (24, four 4s) continued the destruction and ensured we reached an apparently unassailable 233. Anthony told me that between the ages of 12 and 16 he was a very good player, but then something happened and he rather lost it. Would that we could all lose it like this.

Sarah brought lunch, up to her usual standard, which was enjoyed in the sun, it now being a glorious afternoon. She cooked, washed up, laid tea, cleared, washed up and then buggered off. A saintly figure. I noticed however that she has taken to walking around with a drink in her hand so she was not entrusted with the scoring. She once scored sober and there was a 38 run discrepancy.

As we walked onto the field Tom asked several potential bowlers to bowl into the wind. You never heard such indignation at the affront. Their reasoning was, presumably, that they needed the wind behind them to assist their venomous, Larwoodesque pace and swing. But Christiaan agreed. The other opener was Dennis who was unlucky not to get a wicket in his first spell. They reached 33 without loss, only slightly shy of the run rate, when the turning point of the game occurred. Their openers were George the captain, and an excellent hitter of the ball, Quinnen, who threatened to destroy our attack. Christiaan bowled a goodish length ball which Quinnen hit hard and low to Christiaan’s right. He stooped. He swooped. And caught it! Ollie Winters came in and the brothers scored freely and well, but always slightly shy of the run rate. One moment of controversy happened when Christiaan appeared to have trapped George leg before but as he departed George happened to mention that he had hit it. I had not heard the snick but Dennis at square leg thought he hit it too. A hurried conference took place. Christiaan thought the verdict justice for an appeal the previous ball that had been, in his view, mistakenly turned down. But Tom rightly decided that if their captain said he hit it then he hit it, and should be asked to return. He went on to make a fine 34. As so often happens, play following the tea interval saw wickets tumble. Both brothers were bowled by beautiful deliveries from Anthony, Ollie for 50. Then Jack bowled another, Sam Walker had one caught by Jack at square leg, and Anthony bowled a batsman who deigned to take guard, always an indication that he does not expect to hang around very long.

Dennis bowled a beauty to dismiss a proper cricketer, and only the Grand Old Man Martin Winters held out, before succumbing first to a pulled hamstring and then, mercifully perhaps, to holing out. The total was, for a brief shining moment, within reach, when a chap from South Africa with a No. 10 on his back, Dyer, whacked the ball all over the ground. But then he skied one. Possibly the loftiest ball ever hit. It was clearly going to fall between Rupert, Anthony and myself, the wicketkeeper. Traditionally the man with the gloves charges forward and catches it. But this would have meant covering almost 20 feet of ground. Rupert saw no profit in moving a similar distance. So Anthony ran and caught the catch. Brilliantly.

And that was that, bar the shouting and some high jinks by their no. 11 who was bowled off the last ball by Jack. An entertaining game with almost everyone getting a bowl or a bat in the sunshine. The Townies mostly live in Wargrave nearby and brought their families. They breed like rabbits. There must have been 50 little people scampering about the boundary. In the interests of family planning I suggest that a period of abstinence be respected before our game next year. The V&A have long been known for self-restraint, although there aren’t too many temptations and Estelle said she wouldn’t have anyone who drives a VW estate so that rules me and Rupert out.