I was having one of
those rare moments of seriousness.
I don’t have them often and it’s not that I haven’t tried - for the
Sisters of Mirthless Mirth and Countless Hymns insisted that every Catholic girl
should be graceful, seen but never heard.
Serious was the order of the day back then. Well, I got the right name for this sort of malarkey. Anne means “full of grace” in
Hebrew. As I’m neither an
Israelite or speak the lingo, I’m unsure as to how that might transfer into England-residing,
Irish passport-holder me. They did
a good job in knocking the joy out of me, and I will applaud them for their twelve-year
persistence, but I am thrilled to report they never succeeded and I’ve been
making up for lost time ever since.
I laugh a lot and focus on catholic with a small “c”, applying the
universal adage that “he who laughs last laughs longest” – and possibly
loudest.
Well, there I was,
having a serious moment and up I pipe with my best observation about golf.
“It takes about
ninety-three thoughts to make a swing happen but the pundits say you should
have no more than three in your head when you address the ball”, say I. “Which three thoughts would you
choose?”
We were out on the
course, Gill and I, beating out our brand of golf and brandishing our thoughts
to anyone who’d listen, except no one was, apart from us to each other. I was expecting a reasoned discourse
that would take us through the long travail that constitutes hole 2, par 5 or
in my case hole 2, par 75.
But in the blink of an
eye, and in a conversation stopper swifter than a golf swing, back came Gill’s
riposte.
“As many as three thoughts, really? How can men possibly play golf then?”
In an instant I was
gone, backwards, into a bush, my moment of seriousness dissipating on the
afternoon air like chaff in the wind.
Laughter had resumed and I capitulated in its presence. I could see this girl was not currently
on the same mental train tracks as me but she had gone mainline in her reply
and my question now looked like it was sitting on the local village
siding.
I wish I could tell you
what happened to Gill but the next five minutes saw me buffered in the bushes, gasping
for air, wiping the biggest, fattest tears of laughter from my eyes and
rescuing myself from the embrace of the native furze. Only an astute, observant and confident woman could have
made such a wisecrack as that and I realised in an instant that I was never
going to get a sensible answer to this question from Gill.
Naturally, I would have
turned to Sally at this point to inquire of her input but that girl was missing
again, this time not on a culture-vulture jolly, but on a pre-Christmas laze-up
in Lanzarote topping up her suntan while the rest of us slogged through the
lassitudes of the British winter, a wet Waldringfield golf course and an
Everest orgy of Christmas gift and food shopping.
Now I really do have a
problem with unloading my mind. A
routine is not a routine if you have to think about it and, trust me, I can
think for Britain, the Channel Islands and the entire Commonwealth – but only
when I’m faced with a golf ball and have a club in my hand. The remainder of my time is devoid of
all thought.
Take for instance that
week before Christmas. Tee off and
orientate myself, check. Need to
check how many are actually coming to Christmas dinner. Found my marker, check. One last present to wrap. Stance one-tenth to front of ball,
nine-tenths behind, check. Where is that last present hidden? Must remember to
buy some tinfoil. Drop right shoulder, check. No, that’s already on the shopping list. Gift tags,
check. Stick my bottom out,
straight back, check. Ruby or
tawny port with the cheeseboard? Visualise
my shot, check. Should I have
Stilton or Roquefort? Backswing avoiding
collapsing arms, check. Nice ten-year-old
tawny on offer in Tesco, check.
Think I’ll plumb for that one.
Swing through, check. Every
little helps, huh ? Random though,
keep in check. Left arm straight,
check. Am I playing golf or writing my “Must-do Christmas List”, don’t know, check. Have I got gift tags? Said that, check. Keep your head down, you daft cow, no
need to check that. I wonder if
the Christmas pudding will taste all right? Must check when I get home. Move from the hips. Follow through, check. Head down, head down, check. Extend
those arms, check. Oh my golly
gosh, I’ve forgotten to post the overseas Christmas cards, urgent check. Ham cooked in coca cola or honey, haven’t
a clue? And finish, check. I’m done and I haven’t a clue where the
ball is either. That’s the
foreshortened version I’ve given you to suffer through. Doesn’t matter what time of year
it is, I can do this endless head gibberish ad
nauseam.
Have to hand it to Sam
Snead though: he nailed it when he said, “Thinking instead of acting is the
number one golf disease”. The course of true golf never did run smooth and in
my case it seems I’m in chronic disease mode with regular exacerbations of
acute-on-chronic flare-ups to spice it up. I need to park my rush hour train of thoughts at the station
and ease into a chilled action routine. So it seems, on best advice, my choices
are: become a man, take the escape route to Lanzarote or have a full frontal
lobotomy. Hobson, choice, or lack
thereof, are all terms that spring to mind.
Perhaps I could put it
on my pressie list for the big fat man in the white beard and red suit to
deliver on Christmas morn. Now
we’re talking turkey!
‘Tis the season to be
jolly. I’m off to deck my halls
and ring the New Year changes with a swing. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, everyone!
No comments:
Post a Comment