In the morning, I got a message from Shanta who was attempting to return the binoculars, microphone, headphones, sunscreen and clothes I’d left in a back in the back of his autorickshaw two days before.
We met at the ground, he’d driven up from the village of Habaraduwa twice in an attempt to find me.
“I am a very poor but I do not need other people’s things,” he texted. “You are coming to Sri Lanka, we can find something for you, so we should respect you a lot. You own your stuff.”
What had seemed lost was found.
The night before Cricket Et Al made it down to Lucky Tuna on Unawatuna beach for more fresh fish and a swim in the Indian Ocean.
Before we ordered, a large figure loped across the sands. Beau Webster had come down to join family and friends in our favourite Sri Lankan haunt.
The all-rounder is so big he needed to take care his head didn’t collide with the coconuts in the trees above. If he lived close to an airport the aviation authorities would attach a red light to his head.
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