Sick to death of being beaten by all corners at the very Indonesian game of badminton, l decided this week ti redirect the use of space on our lawn, and replaced the rectangular court with a Pitch of very different type. To wit: we now have a cricket net in the garden.

Construction was an altogether painless affair. Utilising a few pieces of tall bamboo left over from the recent completion of a parabola (read "pavilion") in the garden, l managed to persuade a friend to fetch 60 metres of inch-gauge fishing net from the market, (paid for, incidentally, with money from she who now earns it), then convinced a small party of helpers to string it up  between the poles in a fashion l tried hard to recall from my days at school. All this was directed from the balcony, of course,  where l was able to enjoy a few festive leftovers from a bottle l found lurking at the back of the cupboard (only 350 days; to go until  Christmas).

Everything went according to plan until l realised how scant few people there are in Bali who actually know how to play cricket (and  have the time to do it). Being, as l am these days, the feckless pursuer of the easy life, l am able to enjoy all the time the Almighty gave us - in fact l was horrified to learn from my other acquaintances on the ridge that many people on this island actually have to  go out to work.

Facing solitude in my new practice net then, l turned in desperation to the gardener Ketut, a chap whose inestimable talents have on many occasions shocked me with their penetrating diversity, and whose nimble abilities on the (former) badminton court often caused me a stiff back and a shocking loss of face (he usually thrashed me). 

"Do you want to play cricket?" l asked him one summery day as he cut the lawn  with his sickle.
"Cricket?" he answered.
I knew he would be confused. The last time we played "cricket" l lost the price of a hearty lunch on a small brown insect - the Balinese fight these diminutive critters and  wager not small amounts of money on them. l felt l needed to clarify.
"Cricket," l said, tossing him the ball.
"You know, leather against willow ... leg before wicket ... caught in the slips?"

He had no, idea what l was talking about, of course, but was bright enough to have picked up some sense of this bowling lark by watching those visitors who had been able to enjoy a knock on the odd afternoon. This, l knew, might be my chance to regain ground lost on the badminton court. 

With great concentration he marched to the bowler's stumps (l have named it "Bamboo End") while l took up my stance in the late afternoon shade at "Palm Corner". Pooty the Mutt watched from the pavilion. Muffet the cat paid little attention. After a short run up he tossed it down the wicket (a crooked armed delivery which bordered on intervention from the square leg umpire), and l thwacked it with great delight over his head in an impressive, double-step drive through silly mid-off, over by the banana plantation and into the wild blue yonder. "Four runs!" l trumpeted down the pitch at the poor bewildered chap. He was looking far below us into the river valley where the ball had eventually tumbled. "And bowler gets it!" l triumphed.

It was hardly cricket, l admit, but then l did have the flag to think about. 

By Nigel Simmonds.
illustration by A.Mulyadi.

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