WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE, WHO NEEDS ENEMIES???

Trick-Shot-Jodie was on the loose and playing to the gallery.  I’m being kind in using that phrase.  You see, she could never be accused of playing to the fairway, or the tee, or the green – or anything remotely resembling a game of standard golf as you would recognise it.  Perhaps she was playing some perverse form of lay-ups but as I didn’t know or recognise that style of play at this point of my incipient golfing career, my best conclusion was that she was playing to the gallery.  And she certainly stopped players in their tracks and made them gasp – but I really wouldn’t like to be drawn on the quality of admiration that was being expressed in those gasps.  Shock and awe might be the closer ingredients but as it was mainly men who were nonplussed by her antics and we being female, we were easily able to discount their contributions and play on.

Being polite by nature, I did compliment her on her winsome ways with her whack attack on the ball.  At one stage, instead of responding to her usual request for the rescue club, I passed her a spade and shovel.  I felt the ground would be safer if she attacked with these implements.  And she certainly outplayed any strong male that day: the size of her pitch marks and divots were way beyond anything I’d ever seen.  In fact, if golf was scored on size and number of divots taken, Messrs Watson, Kaymer and McIlroy could hang up their golfing gear.  And her pitch marks were something else.  At one point so deep was the indentation, I thought we were heading for Australia.  Concave does not do those marks any justice.

Straight lines did not feature much in her maverick style of play either. She had a definite drive towards crisscrossing zigzags and a star-studded supernatural attraction for trees.  In truth, one stand of trees looked like they’d been attacked by a colony of beavers on a dam building expedition.  For the uninitiated, we don’t have much in the way of beavers in the UK and those we have are only fossils.  This was the crucial point at which I quit yelling ‘fore’ and capitulated into that well-worn cant of ‘timber’.  Trick-Shot-Jodie could certainly show those lumberjacks a thing or two about felling trees.  Our recent Storm St Jude had a lesser deleterious effect on the tree population of Seckford than the effervescent Jodie onslaught.

And things didn’t get any better.  Picture this: we’re back in the trees – for the umpteenth time.  TSJ’s ball is now lying on rough ground, snug between well-spaced trees.  Easy peasy pitching wedge shot between the trees, back onto the fairway.  Or so it would seem.  But TSJ only operates by Murphy’s Law which clearly states that if it can go wrong, it will go wrong.  And it did.  By now, I’d become chief adviser and caddy.  I handed her the necessary iron.  Reader, I really can’t tell you what happened next.  Jodie has this swing that is faster than anything even Dustin Johnson can produce.  Suffice it to say, she swung, she didn’t miss the trees, she did end up on the fairway - but the ricochet landed her a good thirty yards further back towards tee off than our original starting point.  I cried.  Big, big, BIG fat tears of laughter.  My abs worked harder that game then any gym session I’ve ever undertaken.

Now if you’ve ever had the burning need to prove Einstein’s Theory of Relativity – and I have to confess it’s not high on my shopping list – then this was the moment, the coup de grace.  Her standard of play made me look ‘professional’ – relatively speaking that is.  I have a feeling in my erudite waters though that it will be long and many a day before I look that good again.  Perhaps if I have a shot at believing in miracles or take up praying to St Jude.......  He is, after all, the patron saint of hopeless cases and golfers.  Hmmm!  He might have met his match in Jodie and me.  But here’s hoping.

@McIlroyRory

@bubbawatson

@MKaymer59

@DJohnsonPGA

@SeckfordGC 

Golfblogspot.co.uk

NEANDERTHAL MAN

Every golf course has one.  I don’t quite know how to describe him when I first meet him but I know a girl who can.  So I phone #1 girlfriend who has not the slightest interest in golf and can therefore be relied upon to give an unbiased opinion.  And she did not disappoint.  She’s the sort of girlfriend I could never fall out with – she knows too much about me.  I call her Tree (you got it: she’s strong, reliable, grounded); she calls me The Mad Irish One (don’t even bother working it out).  It works as friendships go.

I explain my predicament.  “It’s simple,” she says, “that’s Neanderthal Man you’ve just met.”  And I can’t argue with that conclusion: Tree is so right.  But let me tell you what happened.

Innocent me had rolled up at a local driving range to fit in an extra practice session.  It’s called Millers Barn.  (http://www.millersbarngolf.co.uk/)  I’m happily installed in my stall, shelling out shots, swishing through my swings and minding my own business.  Except nothing’s going right.  Or left.  Or straight.  In fact, nothing’s going anywhere, except to an early demise straight in front of my feet.  Behind me is Lone Ranger, merrily working away on his clubs and shooting off a shot about every ten minutes or so.  He’s slow (very) but he’s precise, pedantic, owns a pundit’s pitch, assimilated to a perfect execution, fabulous finish and to-die-for distance.  I know it’s happening because there’s that satisfying twack! only ever heard when the sweet spot meets the ball at exactly the right point.  The sort of shot that makes you want to spit or turn green with envy.  As I don’t condone the Tiger habit and I’m Irish – so that makes me green enough already – I pause and stand silently back, gaping in admiration.  And he was in a place where he wanted to show off his prowess.  I should have rolled up to practise with a placard that read “Don’t pick on me, mate.  I’ve already finished off petrolhead Alfa Romeo Guiliaetta back in 1975 and it took him a long time to recover” but I hadn’t had the foresight to do this and, anyway, it would have impeded my swing – which, if we remember, was in dire straits right at this moment in time.

Suddenly, Mr Neanderthal Man took it upon himself to instruct me: no discussion, no preamble, no “would you like a bit of help unravelling what’s going wrong?” sort of intro.  In the flash of an eye, I was corralled in a lesson.  And being told with assertion what I should be doing.  Ahem! I don’t like to split hairs here but I didn’t ask him, nor am I the sort of hapless, helpless female who swoons at the slightest mishap.  It’s just not how my DNA is wired, coming as I do from a long line of ancient Brehons who knew a thing or two about female warrior queens.  Girls, if you ever want to know what early emancipated woman meant, read the life story of Queen Maeve @ http://www.queenmaeve.org/  Boys, if you want to find out about this wild and wanton woman... no, don’t do it.  I can’t be held responsible.  Enough.  Back to the impromptu golf lesson.

Problem: what do you do if the instructions you’re now being handed by NM are radically different than those from ebullient and kind instructor Simon?  Mmmmh...!  That’s when I phone Girlfriend #1.  Having named and shamed him, she then proceeds to tell me what to do: utilise my blood pressure cuff; wrap tightly round Neanderthal’s neck; inflate to max; leave in situ till he has turned blue.  I remind her we are both nurses and hang up.  She may be correct in her synopsis but inciting me to murder and mayhem is not a viable answer.  And she has led me astray too many times before.  We nurses have a duty to care – even when the golfing chips are down.

Next, I text Vintage Golfer for advice.  You must have gathered by now that VG is reliable, patient and pragmatic in all answers to my regular inane enquiries.  Imagine my horror when back came the inflammatory reply “tell him to .... ...”.  Maybe my dials are smashed because I’m a convent school product who was raised on good manners and politeness but, VG, I can’t say THAT to anyone.  For years, I have been aware of the negative influence of Lá Fée Verte, the Leprechauns and a cracking drop of Jameson Rarest Reserve * in my life: their combined forces have occasionally led me up the garden path and made me do things I never wanted to do but now it looked like my sangfroid Vintage Golfer had joined ranks with them.  As I couldn’t figure out whether he’d suddenly migrated to his emotional side or simply lost the plot, I did the only sensible thing a girl-golfer-in-distress can do – by return text, I send him Father O’Field’s number and tell him to have his Confession heard.  I expect it will be a long job.  Sorry, Father O’Field.  Mae culpa.  Mae culpa.

Meanwhile, I’m still at a loss as to how to deal with Neanderthal Man.  The solution to my current problem now demanded a whole new level of counterintuitive alchemy.  Like any good golfer, I looked in the bag.  And I found a diamond-calibre club to swing – in the shape of my long time gym buddy Sam.  She and I have exercised a host of muscles as we train together but none more so than those muscles we’ve exercised through laughter.  It’s our best medicine.  “At least she’ll help me find the hot spot of humour in all this,” I mused as I fired up her number.  I explain my predicament.  Phone-a-friend was bang on form.  She uttered one word and hung up.  I did exactly as she said because I knew she knew I could do it well.  When the chips are down, you don’t need a manual, just the right advice. 

“Run” was all she said.

·      

h      *http://www.thewhiskyexchange.com/P-8025.aspx

Confession time

Dear Brian Hartman,

I need to say something.  In fact, I feel I should really begin this piece by saying “Dear Father Brian Hartman”.  It’s not that I believe you are really a confessor but, you see, I need to make a confession.  I truly should begin then by saying “Bless me, Father Brian, for I have sinned”.

It’s been long and many a year since my last confession and my need to do so at this moment in time began with the article you wrote “What was your best shot ever?” ( http://www.golfshadow.com/best-shot-ever.htm )  That set me on the road to reflecting and, in particular, to reflecting on my golfing career to date.

First, I need to tell you that reflection is usually a positive experience for most people.  For me though, it’s not.  It usually produces the worst in me.  I’m not really sure why but, in a world where evidence-based statements are all the rage and random personal statements mean nowt, I offer you by way of excuse my Foley genes.  They were a perverse lot those Foleys and the name means “pirate” if you’re southern Anglicised or “descended from a foal” if you’re northern Anglicised.  I’m Irish – so how does that work?  Make your choice, Brian, it’s a free world, but if you understand these tenets about me – over which I have no control – then you have me down to a t.  Or should that be tee in this case?

I have broken the rules of golf and sinned against my fellow man or, not to put too fine a point on it, against two men in particular.

It all began on the day Catherine and I made our first sally out on the golf course.  Simon finally gave me his blessing.  What a moment of exuberance that was!  In a faith- confirming moment, I recognised all those novenas Sister Philomena-of-the-Thinly-Veiled-Threats made me pray when I was the younger side of little were finally paying off.  That long ago investment was finally returning a dividend: I was going to play my first game.  Simon also found me the perfect playing partner.  Actually we found each other during one of his lessons, in the throes of laughter at one of our many stupefying ‘trick’ shots.  Simon promptly stopped the lesson and paired us instantly.  We have never looked back. And that, dear Father, is where it all went wrong.

First of all, let me introduce Catherine.  Fellow profession.  Fellow black sense of humour.  Fellow victim of laughter.  As nurses, we do epitomise that saying that laughter really is the best medicine and, if you’re going to be a health care professional, you may as well practise what you preach.  We do. In abundance.  By the bucket load.

Now, let me introduce the victims.  Vintage Golfer had warned me that it was good manners to wave through the faster players.  I’m all up for good manners and I see no point in owning a shed-load of manners if you’re not prepared to trot them out regularly for an airing.  And use them I did, but after I had stood by and waved through a tsunami of fourballs and half-a-football stadium of pairs, I got fed up and decided the victims were the last two I was letting through for a while.

Now, Father Brian, you must understand: I bear no ill will against these two men.  There was neither a venial or mortal sin in the offing or shades of malice aforethought floating in my errant brain.  Indeed, the converse is true.  I love mankind in general and even a few people in particular. And it works - so I have no intention of changing this attitude in the foreseeable future.  I did not single them out.  They were victims of time and space - or maybe the theory of chaos if you believe in its existence – but my butterfly brain finds that a tad too hard to fathom.

Catherine and I have our own inimitable style of play.  It involves close encounters with trees, playing off the fairway as much as can conceivably be achieved, out of bounds is a definite must have, and topping the ball at every opportunity is also desirable.  Given we have so much to contend with in any one shot, it is not surprising that distance and direction are not high on our agenda.  And that is where I was led down the path to perdition like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Golf Gods 1 and 2 strolled by, passing with a nod of the head and polite words, driving big, soaring shots bang on target and looking to the entire world in control of their game.  They had a certain je ne sais quoi air that floated behind them like a ship’s wake in passing.  Regal.  Untouchable.  (Actually Father Brian, I lie; I know exactly what that air was.  It’s called ‘Pride in the name of golf’ and they wore it like an expensive aftershave.  I am tempted to call Bono, suggest he re-work his original ‘Pride in the name of love’ song and see if he can come up with a better result second time out.  Martin Luther King did not deserve such a poor tribute replete with an overload of vowel sounds, a dearth of consonants and a tribute that only works if you don’t understand a single word of English.  http://www.u2.com/index/home  But I digress...).  In truth, I was green round the gills with envy and Catherine was quailing in an unhealthy cyanosis.

They polished off that green like true professionals.  None of your common- fault, three-putt malarkey here.  All that remained was the usual re-setting of the hole for the next player (that’s us!) and they would be off to pick up their three- o’clock-parked trolleys just off the right of the green and a minimalist stroll to the head of the next tee.  Precision engineering golfers.

I blush as I recount the next step.

I turned to Catherine for guidance.  “Shall I,” I said.  Without hesitation, she nodded in the affirmative.  And, of course, she was right: there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of me pulling off a shot like that.  The distance was at least 130yds, uphill, and into an oncoming light wind.

But pull it off I did, landing it kerplunk!onto the right of the green.  And that was the end of precision engineering golfers. 

I have never seen two grown men head for the hills at such a pace, hunkered down on their haunches as they ran.    Yep! Brian, that’s when I pulled off my best shot, splintering their golfing aftershave in a thousand fragmented fragrances and served myself with a reminder that even the stupid can occasionally wear je ne sais quoi!

I didn’t have the time to shout ‘fore’ before play but I did manage to decant an obscenity I never knew I knew.  I stood frozen in that pose-y swing thing I like to think looks good on me.  It was only Catherine’s snorts of laughter - and the ensuing dyspnoea as she struggled to regain her breath between - that brought me to my senses.  She was turning blue again but for an entirely different reason.

“How did that happen?” I questioned in amazement.

“You’ve just shot your best shot EVER,” she gasped

For once, I had nothing to say.

I tried desperately to compose myself but it clearly wasn’t working.  By the time I got myself to the green, my victims were preparing to tee off.  I did apologise, Brian my confessor, I did - but only after umpteen attempts to straighten out the laughter lines and wipe the tears that were freely coursing down my cheeks.  Catherine was no help. She was still lying on the ground, comatose with laughter.  I am forever thankful that these two golfing gods were bestowed with a sense of humour similar to ours and eventually went on their merry way in fine fettle and with their resplendent aftershave fully restored.  Long may they be precision engineers.

So now and before I relieve you of your temporary pastoral role, do you think I should be forgiven for my faux pas?  After all, I could have caused a serious injury. 

Before I sign out and you answer, the question has to be asked: would I do it again in the same circumstances?

In a heartbeat!

After all, I can safely say “Catherine led me astray”.

Lesson one continues... part 2

Half way through Lesson 1, I made an announcement.

“I’ve set myself a target for this session,” I expounded.  “By the end of this lesson I will know if golf’s for me.  The number of balls I want to hit will tell me if I have a future.”

Nothing more was said and the lesson continued in litany form: posture, grip, stance, knee flex, head steady, back swing, maintain even tempo, contact, follow through.  And this I repeated time after time under calm tutelage, landing my shots either straight on or drawing them off to left of field.  Nothing spectacular, you understand, but at least I was hitting them.  That ‘Baggy Trousers’ Madness refrain slipped its way happily across my mind and I was chillin’ into ‘Oh what fun we had’ mode when Simon ruined it all by mentioning two words: ‘memory’ and ‘muscle’.  It seems I have to build it.  Trouble is, I can’t remember in what order:  memory muscle, muscle memory – who knows? Now this is the sort of concept that totally flat-spins my brain and, mid lesson, my memory mapping suddenly takes on a life of its own and distracts me.  Instead of concentrating on the new litany, I get busy working out the permutations and combinations of ‘muscle’ and ‘memory’.  My shots immediately renege, take on strange angles, and the rangy rooks that were quietly snoozing to right of field rose raucously in a riot of resonating protest as they were disturbed by my altered delivery.  Later, I ask Guru Vintage Golfer’s advice.  He was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. “Get paper and pencil and write it down,” he texted back.  But he singularly failed to tell me in what order I should pen those two words!  I’ve sacked GVG.  Girls, when you need a classic answer, do not rely on a vintage man.

Strolling back to the clubhouse at the end of the lesson, Simon was busy re-visiting the holes in my performance while I was busy re-visiting the holes in my make-up.  I was slowly slipping back into my contented everyday world when he dropped the second bombshell. 

“Your golf swing needs to be as automatic as you’re driving” was all he said but that was enough to make the hairs rise on the back of my neck: me and driving, we don’t get on – well, at least not automatically.  I’ve been at it a long time but it’s always been something of a work of art.  It began when I was learning to drive.  Busy roundabout, East London.  L-plate and I are doing just fine, giving way politely to traffic from the right. Along comes Alfa Romeo Male – a special breed of petrol-head who, back then, drove a Giulietta Spider – and decided to hoot loud and long at my cautious driving.  Never a good move in my book.  I exit my car with a hard-backed copy of the ‘Highway Code’ in hand and dumped it, with a “read that at your leisure” opprobrium comment attached, straight into his lap.  It was a long time before he regained sufficient composure from that painful encounter to engage his clutch.  Then there was the curious incident with my driving examiner.  Slap bang in the middle of my driving test, he decides to cancel my indicator when I’m pulling out from stationary.  That started the arguments and we argued about everything after that – speed, distance, parking, procedures, world politics, the price of maize and everything else under the sun.  I passed my test first time though and Mr Examiner is still wandering round Snaresbrook, London, gibbering away in gobbledy-gook.  My heart dictates I drive an Audi A5; my finances dictate otherwise.......but I drive my Vauxhall Agila with Audi attitude.  German Audi attitude to be precise.  If you’ve ever driven German autobahns, you’ll know exactly what I mean: let no more be said lest I upset my German family.  Vorsprung durch Technik. http://www.audi.co.uk/

My most recent escapade involved the curious incident of fifty escaping golf balls.  In my haste to get to Lesson 5 (Yes, I’ve got that far and Simon is still sane), I accidentally tipped them out of the boot of my car. If you’re going to pull off a stunt like that, you might as well do it on a busy highway in prime-time traffic.  I did - beautifully and ingenuously, and to my utter embarrassment.  Apart from the expected honking of horns and screeching of brakes, I saw gestures that even Jeremy, James and Richard would find hard to interpret and those Top Gear presenters are a pretty hardened bunch.  By the way, Jeremy, James and Richard, I’m a bit of a Top Gear ladette and I’m up for a test drive with The Stig. (Team Top Gear: https://www.facebook.com/topgear?fref=ts ) 
So you see I’ve had trouble with my driving for a long, long time and now it looked like I was heading for the same relationship with golf. Mmmmh!  I suspect an interesting, exciting, rollercoaster ride ahead. 

“You hit thirty balls.  What was your target?”  Simon asked as we parted.

“ONE,” I laughed in reply.  Now it was my turn to feel like a peahen on steroids and I knew exactly where fairweather golfing son got that gene from.

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.