Still, there are some advantages. I was playing Ketut the gardener the other day during a lull in the bluster when it dawned on me that he-who-has-verdant-digits is actually quite good with the aluminium racket. It's just that he is far too polite to beat me.

Sensing underutilized talent I adopted what I thought to be a magnanimous sort of stance and urged him in to give it his best. Immediately I regretted it. Without further ado he removed his purple housecoat - he's taken to wearing it in the garden since a friend left it after a full moon party - and started shuttling high lobs into the back corners with the accuracy of a professional marksman.

As I pelted across the lawn for the fourth time, I thought I detected a thin smile on his sculptured face. To my eternal disgust, I noticed he was standing virtually motionless in the centre of the court while I ran around like an idiot. Anyway, I took some solace from the fact that badminton is the de facto Indonesian national sport.

And then there was Pooty the mutt's rather inane interference in the whole affair. Not one to be left out of anything, he took it upon himself to chase the illusive shuttle cock around the court (maybe he thought it was a chicken, who knows?), finally gripped it between his jaws and ran at full pelt towards the horizon. We managed to retrieve it, but only after bribing the little sod with a ceremonial rice cake.

Well, thankfully the wind got up and as luck would have it the zephyr was in my favour. Soon my serves were flying round the garden like a bat on amphetamines. Then, as the breeze turned into a squall, my drop shots started to search out hitherto unknown regions of the court until finally, as the squall became a gale and Wayan (she who cooks and cleans) started taking in the washing, I began smashing the weighted feathers with the speed of a lightning bolt. Ketut, meanwhile, struggled to stand upright while the wind stretched his olive skin over chiseled cheekbones. Unfair, I know, but then Nature usually is.

Eventually we had to call it a day. Not, as one might imagine, because of the wind but because of the coconuts. The court sits right underneath a fully charged tree and soon it began to resemble a World War II killing field under mortar fire. Falling debris stopped play, if you get me.

We spent the rest of the evening on the balcony listening to the thud of those skull crushing coconuts while awaiting the nightly arrival of the flying termites. This is a peculiarly southern South East Asian occurrence which seems to take place when you least need it - I mean, what do you do with a thousand flying insects whose idea of fun is to crowd around a light bulb until their wings fall off?

I realize this nocturnal invasion may not sound like much fun to you city folk but if you were to witness the look of anticipated excitement on Pooty's face I'm sure you would understand that it has some protagonists. This hound doesn't see termites, you understand, he sees Mars bars. Flying Mars bars. As soon as they arrive he runs around the terrace like a Jack Russell (which he surely is not) and eats every single one. And then, like some kind of divine comeuppance from the God of Racquet Sports, he too understands the irksomeness of excessive wind.

Tony Stanton