I stumbled out of bed at 8am on Sunday morning to check the weather forecast. Appalling. I texted Will, cancelling our plan to go to Canterbury for the day to watch a one day county game, before stumbling back to bed. At 11am, Will texted back with a great idea. We go and watch some horribly amateurish village cricket instead. For free.

I opened the curtains. Of course, it was a glorious morning. I don't know who pays the Met Office's wages, but I think that a savage round of performance-related pay cuts might bring this bunch of crystal-ball-gazing imbeciles to their senses. I'm not usually so bothered about the weather, but this – this is cricket, we're talking about here.

The London Fielders were playing The Occasional Casuals. It was billed as a “friendly” contest – as if this ragbag collection of overweight men in white-ish clothing were likely to pitch a ferecious cricketing battle with exploding cricket balls and lethally spiked abdominal protectors. Will, Ruth, Jenny and I spread out blankets on the village green, and proceeded to work our way through a banquet of epic proportions, featuring game pie, fine bries, poek & leek sausages cooked on a disposable barbecue which succeeded in burning an enormous hole in the ground, and all washed down with glasses of Pimm's. We looked ridiculous, and the local yout' cast beady eyes on us while they vandalised trees and tennis courts with gay abandon.

We kept knocking glasses of Pimm's over, as the ground was rather uneven. Will put his glass on the cool box – “the only horizontal surface that wasn't on fire” – and the wind blew it into his lap. By 4pm the blankets were gently cradling large quantities of fruit salad, decorated nicely with sprigs of mint.

The cricket was RUBBISH. Some of the fattest men known to, uh, man, were limbering up, getting ready to amble in and deliver dangerously looping deliveries to unsuspecting batsmen whose stances owed more to Babe Ruth than Geoff Boycott. On several occasions Will and I were reduced to helpless giggles as a ball was lobbed down the pitch, missing batsman, stumps and wicket keeper alike before trickling bumpily down to the boundary. But at the same time there was something fantastic about this group of 22 men with no talent for cricket whatsoever, who had neverthless turned out in reasonably smart clothing and, can I say, rather punctually too.

So few runs were being scored that the number of wickets fallen was in danger of outnumbering them. And as such, the game was over in about 3 hours. We decided to make our own entertainment with a frisbee, a Swingball set and another frisbee, which I immediately threw into a tree and spent 20 minutes trying to get down using the first frisbee which immediately fell into my face, giving me a fat lip. “The very modern triathlon, this,” I said, wincing with pain. The games proceeded at a leisurely pace. Jenny and I threw a frisbee back and forth. I occasionally had to run for it, which made me realise that I must lose some weight, and fast. We sat down for a rest. Jenny looked around. “Not many girls around, are there?” She was right. Lots of boys out playing, but no girls. “Where do you think they all are?” I asked her. “Probably indoors, straining curds and whey through muslin,” replied Jenny.

I remember spending most of the day laughing. I wish I could remember all the reasons why. I do remember thinking about Bio-Tex, a 70s washing powder which claimed to be able to shift blood, sweat, gravy and egg, and in what improbable circumstances those 4 stains could have ended up on one garment during one evening.

I had an early night. Before I fell asleep, I cast an eye down at my trousers, sitting in a crumpled heap on the floor. “Keep Away From Fire”, said a big label attached to the inside right pocket. I quickly scanned the carpet for any raging infernos that could theoretically consume my trousers during the night. There were none. I shut my eyes, reasonably contented.