The day started off well enough:I was tucked away, comfy in the dark before being rudely awoken by the beaming sun of the third glorious Sunday of the season.

As we decamped in the lush surroundings of Bushy Park, jealousy reared its ugly head as the Nomads arrived covering theirs with some lovely strawberries-and-cream-themed flat caps.

After Penthouse lost the toss, I was immediately called into action. Unsurprising, since I was to be the lynchpin of the match. Warrior seemed determined to leave me alone with a full 26 balls passing (maximum fine) before hitting me with enough venom to trouble the scorers. At the other end Edgar The Fork (Stu Poyner – TBC) failed to carry his impressive form from the previous week, being dismissed for a couple.

Penthouse went cheaply as did the following few until something extraordinary happened. Quite what I had said or done to Diego (Henry Everett – TBC) in the warm-up I do not know but he was clearly very upset. Never have I seen such an array of swings, swishes and heaves as he attempted to bring down upon me. Dancing around the crease like a ballerina (fined) he amassed 32 which took the Pilgrims to a respectable, if certainly not imposing, total of 152 on a flat wicket.

The murmurs I hear seemed to approve of the tea with special mention for the ginger cake and the miniature scones.

The turn came for the Pilgrims to field, much to my relief, I was in the hands of my team. Juggs came in at quite a pace, hurtling me down the wicket. The exhilaration of it all, the brisk air, fizzing across my leathery skin, the scuff of the wicket, this made Alton Towers seem like a ride on a Stanna Stairlift. Whippet’s firm yet delicate grip at the other end got me swinging in and out before Juggs removed their useful looking opener with a sharp low catch from Frodo.

Juggs continued to hurl me down at a rate of knots, rattling through the top order while Whippet was harshly adjudged not to have a caught behind, a nick that is still stinging today.

With seven wickets down and another 20 overs to bat through, there seemed to be only one winner. I was beaming from ear to ear but resistant batting from the Nomads and a useful knock form their number eight made it look like they would snatch victory from under our noses. Some odd umpiring nearly denied Juggs his Michelle but the batsman walked and with that so did the Nomad’s chances.

With three overs to go all was still to play for and I did the best I could in my 80th over of the day to seam and swing but I had little left. My varnish had long since been flayed off while my stitches were slowly parting. I was leathered.

I must now retire to the world of the used cricket ball, never again to feel the glory of action but at least I can say with pride to have been, albeit for just one day, a Pilgrim.