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
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
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