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I don't wish to sound like a hair-splitter: the World Cup semi-final between Australia and South Africa at Edgbaston was broadly agreed to have been one of the most exciting cricket internationals ever, and to have been there at all was a privilege. But an issue is an issue, and for those of us with access to a corporate hospitality marquee, the duration of the luncheon interval at one-day matches is nothing short of an outrage.

Forty-five minutes! Forty-five minutes! Call that a carnival of cricket? Why, the salmon had only just been cleared away and one had barely finished ladling one's couscous salad on to one's plateful of prime roast beef before play started up again. Frankly one fears for the sport as a whole. How can cricket hope to prosper if it isn't mindful of the needs of its traditional fanbase: the soaks and spongers on company jollies?

That said, even the most heroically committed diner will have had his or her work cut out missing the business end of Thursday's match the final over. Personally, I'm not sure how many more big finishes I can take. After Manchester United, after Carlisle and Manchester City, and now after this heart-pumper, many of us, I expect, could use a long quiet summer of small finishes, a gentle and restful succession of foregone conclusions.

Even before the final inferno, the match had crackled and flared. At times it was a demonstration game in the fine art of fielding. Here were some cricketers who possessed - as cricketers generally don't the throwing skills of American baseball players. In fact, both sides exuded an alertness and focus in the field that you just don't get from the more bored-looking teams, mentioning no Englands.

The ending, however, threatened to eclipse what had gone before. If you were chasing a fairly tall total in a short time (16 from eight balls), you'd probably be happy to have Lance Klusener out there. You'd probably be less delighted if you were down to your last man and if that last man was Allan Donald, who is not widely hailed as a legend with the bat. Fate positively beamed on South Africa when Donald came out and was obliged to go immediately to the non-strike end. Ideally, this is where you would play Donald all the time.

Klusener managed to keep him there. By the end, Klusener had struck 31 in 16 balls, but the exact degree of his control, his consummate cool, was most apparent when he hit a single from the last ball of the penultimate over to keep strike. At that point, you could not have backed him to lose the plot; he was writing it by himself.

Nine to get, six balls remaining. Wasting no time, Klusener clobbered two fours from the first two deliveries. But the third ball was non-scoring and, following some natty fielding, Donald was almost run-out after venturing too far up the wicket - a clammy-palmed moment for both batsmen which almost certainly affected what happened next.

Klusener hit the fourth ball towards a fielder at mid-on and in the split-second available to him, must have weighed the following options: sneak the winner on a half-chance or use one of the two remaining balls to clout the matter beyond doubt? Klusener set off on a run which would carry him eventually to the pavilion, without so much as a second look over his shoulder. We can only imagine how the anticipation inside his stomach as he set off must have turned heavy and rolled over into despair as his run progressed. It's what sportsmen mean by being ``sick''.

Klusener's gambit had depended on the alertness of Donald. Now, if ever there was a moment not to be practising Scottish dancing, this was it. But Donald, responding, we must assume, to some internal accordion which only he could hear, hotched, bopped, stepped forward, performed a 180 degree turn and took two steps back again. Perhaps the memory of that near run-out now divided his mind. Clearly some kind of short-circuit was taking place under his helmet, because, for no good reason that anyone could see, he chose this point to drop his bat.

How unjust that Donald should be the butt of this joke ending. At the conclusion of the Australian innings, he had left the pitch a hero: four wickets for just 34 runs in his 10 steaming overs. And now there he stood, the incredulous hulk, his eyes seemingly focused on his own ankles, as if willing them to do something. Perhaps he didn't hear Klusener; he certainly didn't see him until his partner's bat arrived in the crease at his feet. Finally, forlornly, and above all batlessly, Donald set off down the wicket, not running but drowning, the ball mockingly passing him, going the same way. He never even made it beyond the Australians at mid-wicket, piled up on top of each other in celebration.

Those Australians, along with the two umpires and a small number of Wisden-wielding sociopaths in anoraks, formed part of a very select group within the ground who actually knew, at this point, what the result of the game was. Even Klusener had consulted the square-leg umpire during the last over, presumably because he wanted to be absolutely sure what his target was. If Klusener had questions, then so certainly did the crowd and in the seats a strange atmosphere prevailed. You knew you had witnessed something incredible, but for a while you didn't quite know what it was. Accordingly, joy was bounded. You weren't sure whether to laugh, cry or phone up Bill Frindall. Not since Michael Schumacher won the British Grand Prix on a technicality while stationary in the pits have so many stood so clueless for so long.

And there was no big voice from above to help us. The Edgbaston Tannoy, which had been busy all day telling us exactly where we could get ourselves photographed with the World Cup (an opportunity which Donald probably now regrets declining) and quaintly appealing for our ``good manners'' to prevail over our baser instinct to invade the pitch, was now silent. Eventually the video screen read ``Congratulations Australia'', but a lot of us were still wondering, ``Congratulations for what?''

Elementary logic implied that we had just witnessed a South African victory; the scores were tied, but the South Africans had bowled out the Australians quicker than the Australians had bowled out the South Africans. Two balls quicker, to be exact, but a better performance on the day, however slight.

But this is one-day cricket, so there's no place for elementary logic. To understand in full the rules of this World Cup, you need, at the very least, a maths doctorate and a working knowledge of string theory. Then you need a background in showbusiness. The law whereby Australia triumphed on Thursday on account of a better record than South Africa's in the previous round was a nice bit of theatre management - a piece of engineering enabling the Super Six stage to be perceived, not as a canny exercise in game-spinning, used to trick out the tournament by another week, but as a crucial part of the competition with potentially profound consequences at the tournament's peak.

South Africa robbed themselves of victory. And then they got mugged all over again by the rules. A bad day's business, perhaps, though none of us who watched will ever want to forget it.