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.
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