Faultless weather greeted us and a track you could play snooker on. Noting that at the time of tossing all four of The Willows players who had so far turned up were wrapping themselves around a substantial lunch, The Willows captain deftly won the toss, told his noble foursome that he was aiming for a 40-over total of 227, sent the two least bloated in to open and settled down to a snooze. When he woke for tea he discovered not only that he now had eleven players but that they had amassed precisely the total he’d requested. “That should be ample,” he said over celebratory fruit cake.

It was not ample. Pitcher’s collection of ring-ins and not very ex ex-professionals, never looked like falling short. The ball went hither and yon to be fetched from various quarters of rural North Canterbury by dogs, small boys and weary Willowers while Pitcher gloated through his beard from the pavilion. Ah well.