Where do I start with this one?

It's fair to say there was some anxiety beforehand. Anyone who's played Burnt Ash away knows. No pool umpires. An unpredictable afternoon awaits. You're at the mercy of the hockey gods. Only the best of you will survive it, and you need to be well ahead when the tide comes in.

Fortunately, on this occasion, the hockey gods smiled down upon us.

Just another week. Another game. Another three points.

Pre-game, the usual shenanigans. Scotty wanted a 10am meet. We assembled by 10:17. No parking spaces at Dartford Science & Technology College, so a fair old walk to the pitch. Everyone present by 11:10 for a midday start.

Everyone, that is, except our bloody goalkeeper, centre-back and secret weapon.

Eventually, the missing persons arrived. We had an absolutely dreadful warm-up, and hockey commenced.

Being Remembrance weekend, we wore poppies and observed a minute's silence. A moment to reflect on those who made the ultimate sacrifice.

On the hockey front, there was also unfinished business from the last time these two sides met. Some wounds take time to heal. 3-3 last time out, it was tragic.

The opening exchanges were amicable. Respectful, even. Both teams playing within their abilities. It was all rather civilised, and could easily have developed into something resembling cricket, complete with the prospect of half-time prawn sandwiches.

Sadly for Burnt Ash, we were all out of prawns.

Things got going with a genuinely lovely move. Scotty picked it up in the middle, around halfway. Out wide to Stone (T), back inside, on to Hopkin (M) around the 25, drew them in, popped it out to Stone (B), who found Lorcan inside. Kapow.

One-nil to the good guys. Blue ahead.

An unusually well-worked team goal. The sort of thing that makes you wonder whether we've actually been listening in training.

Uno et zero.

Next, they scored.

Why, of course.

Penalty corner, I think. I've developed a remarkable ability to forget opposition goals almost immediately after they happen. Parlez-vous français? PARLEZ-VOUS FRANCAIS?! Whatever. London clubs don't get the lingo.

In fairness, there was some genuinely lovely hockey being played. Patience amongst the big boys at the back, the ball zipping between Ireland, Sutton, Stone and Stone. It's quite beautiful when a third team plays proper hockey. Patience. PATIENCE.

Burnt Ash began to get the upper hand. A flurry of chances followed. Will Paine made some important saves, and Sam Ireland somehow parried one around the post from a PC.

Tight. The clock ticked on. And on. and on. 38 minutes for H1. Funny how they were on top for the final 5 of the half.

Half-time. 1–1.

The team talk was straight from George's coaching manual. Be betterer than them.

And betterer we was.

Immediately after the restart, rather than our customary concession, we took the lead.

Jimmins sensed an opportunity down their left flank. 67.8% press. perfect. He pounced, nicked possession, dribbled a bit and squared it. Lorcan was waiting approximately six inches from goal. Full stretch. Full Johan Cruyff. Lethal from the distance of a gnat's testes. That's what she told me anyway.

2–1.

Still, work to do.

The officiating was proving challenging for both sides. Some might say Sutton deserved a green card for repeated offences. Others might argue it was a manufactured foul, amongst many others. Anyway, green card he didn't want. A little unnecessary commentary later, and yellow was the upgrade. Down to ten.

No midfield.

Perhaps, somebody suggested, we should bring on a midfielder? Cross was having none of it. All-out attack, apparently. Eventually he came around to the idea, although not without considerable debate, and we survived the storm.

Ish.

Back to full strength, and Alex Cross found himself on the scoresheet. A thoroughbred racehorse. A finely tuned Nissan Skyline. Toight like a Toiger. Under the right jockey, a thing of beauty. Under the wrong one, well, it's considerably less enjoyable for everyone involved. He barged his way through, battering ram, took a pop, and in the ball went. It was acutely glorious, and so very hard to play against.

3–1.

Burnt Ash, what a lovely bunch. They took the setback in their stride and promptly scored themselves.

3–2.

Paine had no chance. Boots? That's a negative ghostrider.

And suddenly, with the tide threatening to come in, those hockey gods were looking rather less friendly. The auto arm in full swing.

On 60 minutes, we finally won a penalty corner. Unexpected, we'd had little.

Ireland went direct. The keeper bounced it out to PK, nobody closed him down, so he clattered it straight through the post man. That'll be a bruise in the morning.

4–2.

And 4–2 it stayed.

We had plenty of opportunities to s house our way to the final whistle, but instead kept peppering them. Bananarama from Ben Stone. Minister the Interceptor. TJ, it's not unusual. Joel. Mike Hopkin. Jimmins.

Jimmins. What a player that boy could be. Like something from a halloween movie. He's haunting Kent's former best defenders, rent free.

Eventually, the whistle went. Four goals, three points, and another successful expedition into the wilds of Dartford. Winners are grinners and all that blarney.

Three wins on the bounce, unbeaten after seven, and sitting pretty in second place after Gore Court predictably soiled themselves at Blackheath. The hockey gods had spoken.

Next week we're back at Three Hills against Blackheath. Should be easy. We'll probably make a meal of it.

Second in the league. Shirts ironed and ties ready.