I have, just for fun, and high on my list is the day I played beach cricket with the street kids of Colombo.

I was in Sri Lanka covering an Australian cricket tour, and some mates from Channel Nine invited me to join them as they filmed the kids at play.

Pretty soon we had a scratch match underway, and eventually a full-blown beach "Test".

It was one of a score of matches being played simultaneously, each one overlapping into neighbouring territory across ill-defined boundaries.

We used a plank of wood for a bat and a tennis ball denuded of every last wisp of fur through overuse.

Driftwood stuck into the bare, red earth formed the stumps.

The kids were overjoyed at the prospect of taking us on, bubbling with enthusiasm.

The match was played in a magnificent spirit.

The sportsmanship was exemplary.

Batsmen "walked" if they believed they had edged a catch, only to be sent back by the other side as a reward for honesty.

I can't remember who won, because it doesn't matter.

I had my video camera with me, and a succession of my media team-mates picked it up occasionally and started filming and commentating on proceedings.

We watched the footage that night at our hotel, and roared ourselves silly at the images and observations.

At one point play was held up as a procession of kids riding donkeys crossed our wicket.

"There's been a pitch invasion!" the commentary wailed.

When our Test ended that afternoon, we exchanged fond farewells with our opponents and repaired to the nearby and very famous Galle Face Hotel to wash the dust out of our throats.

That was the only slightly jarring moment for me.

For a couple of hours, two teams of wildly contrasting ages and backgrounds had played as absolute equals, united by a much-loved game.

Then the rich visitors went off to a five-star hotel, and the kids went home to ... what?