Summertime and the living is easy. I think not.

Long shadows forming on county grounds, the sound of church bells calling parishioners to Holy Communion, leg-spinners getting dry pitches for once. I think not.

Long faces on under-prepared municipal grounds, the sound of a monsoon on the rickety pavilion roof. The pitch a damp, slippery, artificial nightmare. Sadly, nearer the truth.

The forecast was for glorious weather for the whole of the final Bank Holiday before Christmas.

But, as the TV advert has it, cricket is little more than an English raindance - a call to nature to do its worst.

We started play on time despite the rain of Sunday afternoon. By 2.46pm hope was gone.

The early morning thunderstorm had been followed by tedious drizzle as it made its way northwards to give England another day of hope at the Oval. Hardly a let-up followed.

After an early tea, we intrepid souls decided the time had come to fight the elements.

Like King Canute parting the waves, we cocked a snook at the ravages of nature.

Tom, the most elements-aware member of the team, looked more like an Arctic explorer than a player as he stood anorak-clad to officiate.

The ball was more Imperial Leather than cow leather, as the constant drip-drip-drip from the Cuckfield sky permeated its every nook.

Still, Smeders, our star batsman, scored a rapid 50 not out, to propel us to a respectable total of 140 in our allotted 20 overs.

This was a fear match - not a beer match - for the fielders cowering in the gloam, amid an uneven outfield. Then it was our turn.

Richard Bryant and Tommy got us off to a solid start, conceding only about three an over in their opening spell.

Then, as the sun briefly shone through the gradually thinning cloud, came a revelation as if from on high.

Seam bowling is easy. Let me say it again - seam bowling is EASY.

The ball was far too wet for spin, so I placed it at the front of my hands, ran in 12 steps and let off the customary grunt (sorry about the smell, umpire).

OK, I still went for plenty, but the seam bowler's mind is not, it seems, encumbered by the Byzantine thought processes of the spinner.

Run in, wham it down, return to marker. That should be all the coaching book says.

No dark nights of the soul, fretting about being hit for six over your head off a decent ball. No unread googly going to the legside boundary from a slog. Just sweet, medium-paced simplicity.

But of course, the seamer, as with everyone who plays for the Headliners, still faces certain vagaries beyond his control.

As with the weather above, Typhoon Bernard is a haphazard force beyond the wit of man to understand.

How did he manage to let THAT ball through?

Like Shane Warne's first ball in Ashes cricket to Gatting eight years ago, THAT miss (as it is destined to become known in the annals of the club game) heralded a new standard.

Fielding has finally reached the nadir.

As the ball skidded slowly towards Bernard, he placed out his left paw (it surely cannot be a hand) missed it and somehow managed to scoop it on and over the rope.

Captain Bruce looked at me, gave a hearty belly-laugh and said: "You always get good value with Bernard."

Do I? Seemed rather a poor investment to me.

Our vanity in playing a game of cricket in the face of all the weather gods had thrown at us had been rewarded with a stroke of divine intervention.

Surely a man alone could not have managed such a feat of misfielding.

Are cricketers any more than a bunch of druids, standing in a field dressed in white, beckoning callous nature on without even knowing it?

If so, does anyone know any good spells?

"Summertime and the living is beastly". That's more like it.