DRESSING THE PART - PART 2

Now you have to understand my colour is blue.  Royal blue to be pedantic.  I’ve had my colours done.  First time I met Cousin Sondra, she came right out with the “what’s your colour?” number.  Cousin Sondra is American, retired fashion guru, well-dressed, well-travelled, well-spoken, well-versed in colour analysis and...well, we get on like a house on fire.  Fellow eccentric soul, I love her.  Not having a clue what she was talking about and feeling like the country girl on her first trip to the big city, I rallied with a “it constantly changes” retort.  “Not possible” was the answer and, despite my carefully culled counterpoint of “it’s Boots No.7 Beige when I’m in make-up mode, it’s Celtic freckles when I’m not, it’s ruddy when I’m outdoors in strong winds, and broiled lobster when I’m at the gym”, she was having none of it.  Sondra sailed off without further ado but returned next morning with a chart in hand.  I was diagnosed as ‘royal blue’.  “From now on you wear only clothes with these undertones” was my charge.  I wasn’t sure about blue but once she added ‘royal’ I was sold.  But today I was going shopping and I was intent on red.  Yes, red, that’s what I said.

SIMPLY THE BEST MAN U

Red.  I am nothing if not well-read.  How else would I know about the psychology of colours?  And red’s a winner every time.  Hence I’m a Man U supporter – oh! and the fact that golfing son insists I follow  There’s enough research out there to verify this fact so why wear royal blue when you want to win?  No contest.  Red it is then and I just hope I don’t bump into Cousin Sondra on the golf course.  I’m probably safe for a while yet: she lives in California and I in Essex, England.  But there are always those massive family reunions we hold regularly back in Ireland.......hmmmm...... that includes the Meehan Family Golf Tournament.  There could be trouble ahead!  But Cousin Sondra was currently the least of my worries.  I had just drawn up the definitive list of sports shops covering three towns, two counties and a long weekend.  Ready and primed for the big shop, I set off.  A lady with a mission in red could not fail.

But what a disappointment that turned out to be.

Go-faster striped gym gear – check.

You –can’t keep-up-with-me running apparel – check.

Bend-it-like-Beckham football kit – check.

Murray mood tennis clothes – check.

Knock –‘em-dead boxing garb – check.

It was all there in glorious Technicolor and when I inquired excitedly of a shop assistant where the golfing department was, he led me to a dark recess in the underbelly of the shop and left me there.  I groped around in a tiny enclave of tops and trousers in shades of bereavement black, muddy brown, pastel pinks - so pale they looked liked they needed resuscitation (I’m a nurse, don’t argue) - and deathly insipid greys.  To crown it all, not a thing remotely resembling decent ladies wear was visible.  And as for red.......

After a weekend of devoted shopping, I returned home empty-handed, several (sterling) pounds lighter for having drunk a gallon of coffee at my favourite chic coffee shop and several (avoirdupois) pounds heavier for having eaten a shed-load of their pecan yum yums (to die for!).  I was not winning.

That’s when strike two came from Vintage Golfer who now appeared in the form of fashion guru.  A week let loose at The Open, Muirfield, a wee dram of Bunnahabhain 25 year old and a chat with a sales rep had armed VG with the site of my dreams.  Clothes for pars and bars.  Take it as read, I was in love. KaBoom! Fireworks trousers, matching cap and red polo shirt bought in a flash of cash.  Kitted and fitted.  (A big shout-out to VG.  I think I will introduce him to Cousin Sondra.)

MY TROUSERS KA-BOOM!

Now all I needed was an honest opinion.  If you want one of those, ask middle child, oldest daughter.  She’s the sound bite queen, media buff and general geek in my family.  So if you’re feeling sensitive about a particular issue, don’t go there unless you can handle the answer.  For instance, girls, the “does my bum look big in this?” question is not one you’d casually trot out in her presence or, sensitive new man, unless you hold a burning desire to know if your middle age spread is fast turning into a muffin-top-mound, don’t ask because she’ll tell you.  She speaks at conferences.  Do you think she can’t handle fetching questions from lone inquirers?  I took my entire life in my hands when I posed for her in my new golfing gear and asked “Whaddya think?”  In an instant, she coined the phrase I’ve come to love, “Mum, that outfit - it’s so bad it’s good.”  Stamped with the royal and awesome seal of daughter approval, I headed off for Lesson One.

Royal and Awesome http://www.royalandawesome.co.uk/

Simply the best http://www.manutd.com/Splash-Page.aspx

Out of this world http://www.bunnahabhain.com/our-whisky/25-year-old

DRESSING THE PART - Part 1

Clothes.  You always have to wear them.  Well, you don’t if you belong to some nudist sect but given that I live in the cold of UK winters I find it kind of essential to don some garments.  Add to that my professional life and I think you could conclude that even if I were a fully paid-up member of a nudist colony – which I’m not – then wearing clothes constitutes a large part of my life – which it does.  We can also safely conclude that, with a smidgen of effort, anyone can look good.  However, it takes much more effort to look so bad you’re good, while all the while making it look effortless.  Respect for the latter I say.  When it comes to clothes then, there are no prizes for guessing which category I belong to.
The notion to start playing golf was something I fermented on for a couple of years.  Fate conspired to send me two sets of golf clubs and, after a few cursory inspections which failed to throw any light on what I should actually be doing with them, I consigned them to the garden shed where the spiders and their cobwebs obliterated them.  I forgot about those clubs.
Next came the golf shoes.  They didn’t look very exciting to a girl like me with an Imelda Marcos penchant for shoes.  These too I inspected, looking for inspiration, and eventually consigned them to the recesses of my wardrobe under the apt “What possessed you to buy those?” heading.  And there they sat.
Then there were the golf gloves.  Unfortunately, I thought I had a pair and spent considerable time searching for the ‘lost’ one until erstwhile comedian son, with a large grin on his handsome face, informed me it was a singleton.  Huhhh!
But now that I had a date with destiny in the shape of Lesson One, it was time to get motivated.  Spiders don’t scare me so they got shifted (incidentally, no spiders got hurt in the writing of this article), the clubs got dusted and the glove got a note pinned to it which read “This glove is a stand-alone item - just like a pair of trousers is not a pair but merely one”.  Lest I forget and start searching again!  I headed for the wardrobe and the shoes.
Brand new shoes and blisters go hand in hand.  It’s a given.  So I took to wearing the golf shoes – ‘wearing them in’ I think is the suitable phrase.  I had several arguments with those spikes.  I stuck to the carpets, the door mats, the somnolent cat (she’s long-haired and was not injured in the writing of this article) and the bath mat.  Mowing the lawns became a nigh-on-impossible task.  While the power mower did what it’s supposed to do – move smoothly and powerfully through the grass – I was left far behind, embedded by my spikes in the newly mown aftermath.  I finally lost control of the lawnmower and it’s now at the bottom of the garden pond.  But hey!
The worst calamity happened with my bedroom rug. It’s shag pile.  While deeply immersed in the art of practising my swing thereon, I was focused on maintaining even tempo through the back swing, down swing and follow through.  All was going well until I discovered my feet were locked in an embrace with the long, luxurious pile of the rug and wouldn’t move - while the rest of me did, and with considerable force, in the perfect execution of that posey-swing-thing I had seen so many times on TV.  You do not need a science degree in fulcrums or tipping points to know what happened next.  I fell over – the sort of fall you might endure if you’d sunk twenty pints of Guinness on a night out with the lads.  I managed this feat while stone cold sober. The only contact made in that shot was me with the floor.  I caused myself a great mischief that night. 
But I still had an outfit to buy.  And I wasn’t keen to model that Simon Cowell look.  You know the sort – high-waisted belted trousers, shirt tucked in so tight it looks like it’s meant to be a straightjacket that reaches to your knees.  The muffin-top-levelling look I call it.  Not for me.  I’m outta here - next stop clothes shops. 

http://www.guinness.com/en-gb/ - Guinness and Champagne: now that's smooth
Check out my favourite fun golf site - http://www.bunkersparadise.com/ 
And my favourite golf clothes site -http://www.royalandawesome.co.uk/?gclid=CMCfxbC48r4CFYsfwwodPlsAlQ

Clothes. You always have to wear them. Well, you don’t if you belong to some nudist sect but given that I live in the cold of UK winters I find it kind of essential to don some garments. Add to that my professional life and I think you could conclude that even if I were a fully paid-up member of a nudist colony – which I’m not – then wearing clothes constitutes a large part of my life – which it does. We can also safely conclude that, with a smidgen of effort, anyone can look good. However, it takes much more effort to look so bad you’re good, while all the while making it look effortless. Respect for the latter I say. When it comes to clothes then, there are no prizes for guessing which category I belong to.

The notion to start playing golf was something I fermented on for a couple of years. Fate conspired to send me two sets of golf clubs and, after a few cursory inspections which failed to throw any light on what I should actually be doing with them, I consigned them to the garden shed where the spiders and their cobwebs obliterated them. I forgot about those clubs.

Next came the golf shoes. They didn’t look very exciting to a girl like me with an Imelda Marcos penchant for shoes. These too I inspected, looking for inspiration, and eventually consigned them to the recesses of my wardrobe under the apt “What possessed you to buy those?” heading. And there they sat.

Then there were the golf gloves. Unfortunately, I thought I had a pair and spent considerable time searching for the ‘lost’ one until erstwhile comedian son, with a large grin on his handsome face, informed me it was a singleton. Huhhh!

But now that I had a date with destiny in the shape of Lesson One, it was time to get motivated. Spiders don’t scare me so they got shifted (incidentally, no spiders got hurt in the writing of this article), the clubs got dusted and the glove got a note pinned to it which read “This glove is a stand-alone item - just like a pair of trousers is not a pair but merely one”. Lest I forget and start searching again! I headed for the wardrobe and the shoes.

Brand new shoes and blisters go hand in hand. It’s a given. So I took to wearing the golf shoes – ‘wearing them in’ I think is the suitable phrase. I had several arguments with those spikes. I stuck to the carpets, the door mats, the somnolent cat (she’s long-haired and was not injured in the writing of this article) and the bath mat. Mowing the lawns became a nigh-on-impossible task. While the power mower did what it’s supposed to do – move smoothly and powerfully through the grass – I was left far behind, embedded by my spikes in the newly mown aftermath. I finally lost control of the lawnmower and it’s now at the bottom of the garden pond. But hey!

The worst calamity happened with my bedroom rug. It’s shag pile. While deeply immersed in the art of practising my swing thereon, I was focused on maintaining even tempo through the back swing, down swing and follow through. All was going well until I discovered my feet were locked in an embrace with the long, luxurious pile of the rug and wouldn’t move - while the rest of me did, and with considerable force, in the perfect execution of that posey-swing-thing I had seen so many times on TV. You do not need a science degree in fulcrums or tipping points to know what happened next. I fell over – the sort of fall you might endure if you’d sunk twenty pints of Guinness on a night out with the lads. I managed this feat while stone cold sober. The only contact made in that shot was me with the floor. I caused myself a great mischief that night.

But I still had an outfit to buy. And I wasn’t keen to model that Simon Cowell look. You know the sort – high-waisted belted trousers, shirt tucked in so tight it looks like it’s meant to be a straightjacket that reaches to your knees. The muffin-top-levelling look I call it. Not for me. I’m outta here - next stop clothes shops.




http://www.guinness.com/en-gb/ - Guinness and Champagne: now that's smooth

Check out my favourite fun golf site - http://www.bunkersparadise.com/

And my favourite golf clothes site -http://www.royalandawesome.co.uk/?gclid=CMCfxbC48r4CFYsfwwodPlsAlQ

Getting started in golf...and so it begins

“You can’t play golf!” he laughed.  He laughed uproariously, basking in his own bead of joy.  There were a lot of things I didn’t like about that statement: first, the emphasis was on the ‘you’; secondly, it was my son making this pronouncement; thirdly, I regard him as friend and encourager; and, finally, I had brought him up to tell the truth.  I eyed him balefully, replete in the knowledge that, while I had done a good job in rearing him, my good works were coming back to haunt me.  He headed out the door, proudly clutching his shiny new blue-and-white striped golf bag stuffed with equally shiny silvery-new golf clubs, looking every inch a peacock on steroids with his plumage on full display.  I was green with envy.  As he swept onwards and outwards, he threw his parting phrase at me – the scorpion phrase let’s call it.  “Maybe crazy golf,” he said, “That’s right up your street.”  He laughed himself all the way out of the house and into his car and I could see him laughing as he drove off the street.  You can go off people, you know, even a beloved son.  I take the no-nonsense approach that a parent should be allowed under mitigating circumstances to sell their progeny on line without it being a criminal offence – and this was surely one of those times.  I was already writing the ad as he turned left out of our road.

My mood stayed dark and brooding for a while as I ruminated on that family gene I had so skilfully passed to my son and now allowed me to be the butt of his quick wit and snappy riposte.  “Comedian,” I muttered dolefully as I searched my reserves for a solution.   The quickest way to ensure I will do something is to tell me I can’t.  I blame this trait on a carefree youth and a large dose of education at the hands of the religious arm of the Mafia – otherwise known as the Sisters of Mercy – which left me with a strong sense of disestablishmentarianism, very little insight into the quality of mercy and a need to kick over the traces.  My adult self has learned to control these urges but, when the chips are down as they surely were now, I drew on this resource.  Muttering dark words that were never in the vocabulary of those nuns, I set about plotting my revenge.  Game on.

The first golden rule for any female contemplating a new anything is to consult the girl crew.  Well, I have a handbag-ful of girlfriends and consult them I did.  They are never shy in bringing forth their opinions on any subject under the sun but imagine my horror when I mentioned the word golf and provoked nothing more than a “Golf,” they said, “what’s that?” and barely raised a collective finely plucked eyebrow in response.  When I mentioned skorts their interest ratcheted up a notch or two.  “How does that work?” they asked, sipping diligently on a vintage Wolf Blass oaked chardonnay.  When I said it was a garment made of a cross between Lycra and linen and designed to lift flagging abdominal spare tyres to boob height, thereby increasing busts from vapid 36B’s to Madonna-coned-in-your-face 40DD’s, they were with me, excited, intent.  The arc of interest didn’t last long though.  The next question put paid to that.  “Are we allowed to wear stilettos?” shimmied up my gym-buddy girlfriend.  I had to fess up a large fat ‘no’.  The response to that was couched in a logic I find hard to disagree with – girls in heels on greens would make less of an indent than man-sized pitch marks, the ground would be aerated while they played and any girl in heels would automatically be pitched over the ball.  No need for all that male-simpering preparatory knee-flexing and crouching over the ball too often seen at address.  It came with the territory.   If the rules changed, they promised...... Well, I’m not holding my breath.  Before I leave the girl crew firmly behind, I have to mention I didn’t have the courage to tell them there are still some men-only golf clubs out there.  I could not take responsibility for the lynching-mob mentality that would surely erupt.  I love my girls too much and, besides which, jail visiting them would take up far too much time that could be otherwise invested in the beautiful game of golf.

Next stop was the sages.  You know the sort, we’ve all got them – they know everything about anything but nothing about the something you might sensibly want to discuss.  Dyed-in-the-wool pundits lurking in the guise of working colleagues, family, nodding acquaintances or any Joe Public who might happen by.  “Take Dufner,” they said – and I wished somebody would, preferably a spin doctor or image consultant; “Look at Rory McIlroy,” they cajoled – and I did but I never got past the haircut or, more pedantically, the lack of it.  I’ve sent his mother my stylist’s number; “And then there’s Tiger,” they intoned – and I sunk immediately into dufnering pose.  Well, I never got the points they were actually making but I did glean that starting young has some advantages.  As I had obviously missed the boat by a wide margin, I promptly signed my grandson for junior golf academy.  Maybe he’ll remember his grandmother when he’s famous.  Recent form was not looking too good.  The embedding of his ball in the cat’s dinner dish and the proceedings of chipping it out were rather painful to watch.  The fine spray of meaty gel is taking some major cleaning effort and his mother is not best pleased with me.  I won’t be augmenting my pension fund just yet but there is hope: he is a mere two.

My father instilled in me the need to do things the “right way”.  Trouble is he never told me how to recognise the right way so I blew that piece of advice out of the water a long time ago and have been making it up ever since.  He also told me that a job worth doing is worth doing well.  Now this I “get”.  I was ruminating on that gem of wisdom and wondering where I should go next when - ping!  into my inbox arrived Mr Right Way who shall, from henceforth, be otherwise known as Vintage Golfer.  Of course I’d known for some time he was vintage but quite how good a golfer he was he had hidden quietly under his bushel.  By some random act of the texting gods, his hand and handicap were revealed and, suddenly, I had someone who knew more than something about the specific and almighty thing I needed most to talk about: getting the right start in golf.  He set me on my way at last.  I learned several things from that encounter: the right way will find you - don’t waste time looking for it; always check for bushels in vintage characters’ lives - surprising what you find hidden in this pre-emptive strike; and never leave home without your lipstick and your mobile phone fully charged.  After all, you never know the day or the hour when Vintage Golfer will drop by your inbox and you will always want to look your best when he sets you off on the right way.  It’s a given.

Vintage Golfer supplied me with the contact number for the best golf teacher on the planet.  Simples. 

“Have you ever played golf before?” fielded Simon when I called him to book a lesson.  I was tempted to lie but those nuns and my parents had done a good job here – “No,” I replied truthfully, fully expecting he would trot out my son’s “Take up crazy golf, it should suit you” number.  Instead and to my utter amazement, he replied “That’s great.  You can’t have gained any bad habits then.”  I was tempted to rebuff this with a quick resumé of my life but it was a long time since anyone had paid me such a marvellous compliment so I took it on the chin and basked in its sunshine.  We booked a date.  Armed only with grim determination, all my own teeth, the contact number of a great hairdresser, and a pressing need to prove my son wrong, I headed for the golf course.  Pushing fifty-eight on the map of time may not be the youngest start but, as fifty-eight is the new forty-eight and I am possessed of the optimism of youth, I could see only a glowing future.  I would soon be a golfer.  Job done.