The Golf Police

It was the week the White Coats said the fairways were mine.  When they gave permission for the clubs to leave the back door.  To find the bunker guarded greens and heather smudged grass.

“Get on with your life” they said.

I turned my back on the needles and drugs.  The chunky cufflinks and expensive pens, coveted from the other side of the desk and returned to the dimpled ball.  I had been away too long.

The night before the clubs were ready.  The shoes polished and the balls marked. I took the putter out and checked the grip.  Put a ball down and putted the length of the long dusty hall.  It felt good. It felt right and the ball disappeared under the chair.

By the time the moon and stars had vacated the night sky, the day dawned. Wet. Cold. Windy.

“You won’t be playing in this” said The Golf Police.

“What’s the point” said the City Girl.

“Go and meet your Swindle” said the thespian.  “Feel the rain on your face and dance through the puddles”.

We traded smiles.

“Might just go for coffee” I said.  continue reading…

 It was a week of mixed fortunes.  Pain. Paint. Poles. Pomegranates. Parmesan and police.     

The fairways were a distant dream.  The swindle still bantered and dropped their balls. They met triumph and disaster. Oak trees and heather.  Unplayable lies and tricky putts. They took the good with the bad. The rough with the smooth.  Emails were sent.

From: The Undertaker
Subject: Planning Ahead

I hear you haven’t been well. Do you want one of my cards?  Golf is going well.  Played a few games at the seaside. Blew a gale but managed to get 34 points. The breakfast was good and the cakes were like my Mum used to make.  If you get better, we must fix up a game. 

The Undertaker x

From: Big Rich
Subject: Golf

Ruggy – 24 points.Sid 26 points.Gus 28 points.The Busman 30 points/Pancake 32 points. Sheriff won on34 points.  I have swung the axe and the cuts have been savage on the handicap front. We have agreed not to cut The Sheriff. Scratch is tough enough.You will be in my line of sight when you return with all those shots.

 Usual mixed fortune on the fairways.  Or in the woods if you are Sid.  His knees are bad and the oak trees are taking a bashing from his three wood. Gus has got his distance back on the tee and Ruggy has forgotten how to putt. My game fluctuates and I spend a long time in the  long grass.  The Busman still has a bad finger and Pancake is managing to win either the front, back or nearest the pin.  He is still not happy about his handicap of six.  The Chef said come back soon and he will make you a vegetarian lasagne and even the Green keeper’s dog misses your smile. 

Big Rich. 

I winged off replies.

To: Big Rich                                                                                                                       Subject: Men in the woods

Sounds like no one is using those tight fairways. Maybe you could get a reduction in your subs.  Tell Sid to get those knees fixed. Fine Pancake every time he moans about his handicap and say hi to Stanley the Dog. 

The White Coats said I can come back soon.  One of the surgeons plays a bit.  He wears really neat ties and has got a good golf swing.  I bet he putts well. Steady hands.

 Catch you soon.

Woody x

To: The Undertaker 

Subject: Touting for business and Golf

I intend to get better.  Will fix a game soon.

Woody x

There were bits I missed out in the emails.  I missed out the bit about the pomegranates, the painter and the Pole. I missed out the bits about missing their swings and smiles. I missed out the bit about shafts and spikes and slicing off the tee.  I missed out the bit about lagged putts and sandy lies. I missed out the bit about nearest the pin, birdies and bogies. I missed out the ‘miss you’ bits. continue reading…

Sometimes life throws a curved ball. Days do not always going according to plan. Sometimes life and fate intervene. They jump on the subway, ride it for a few stops and then jump off.  Things have changed.   It is the hand we were dealt and it’s called life.

The Swindle and the Golf Police were not happy.  Both had different reasons.

“I think you should get a refund on your subs” said Sid.

“Why don’t you try a different doctor” said Big Rich.

“This one is good” I said. “He plays golf and understands about the dimpled ball”.

 “Have you tried googling his mortality stats?” said Ruggy. 

Gus was not happy about the Doctor. 

“How can you go to someone who supports Man U? “ he said.

“Come back soon” said the Sheriff.  “We will miss the Silent Assassin on those fairways”. We traded smiles.

Outside the trees were still bending to an easterly wind and the heather a smudgy mauve amongst the wind blown rough.  In the clubhouse, specials were being served, beer was being supped and piles of seasoned logs were stacked ready for winter fires. Golfers still played in short sleeves and the greens were fast.  Someone was practising  in the net, set up for a slice.  It was still warm enough to sit on the patio, read the paper and watch the golfers head off down the second fairway.  I said my farewells and put the golfing gear away.

The Golf Police worried about shirts, suppers and spread sheets.

“I’ll do a you a list” I said. I scribbled a note and left it in the kitchen.

Dear Family,

The fridge is in the corner.  Sometimes it needs to be replenished. The machines know their functions.  Just load dishes in one and clothes in the other.  The thing in the utility room is called an ironing board. The laundry needs help on its journey from the basket.  I have drawn a map of the kitchen.

Good luck.

The Boss  xx

The appointment was kept with the White Coat. continue reading…

It doesn’t seem so long ago that the sounds of summer were chilled beers and barbecues. Pubs and    Pizza.  Sand castles and ice creams.  Picnics in parks.   Planes.  Trains and tents.  Another year. Another summer. 

But now the summer sounds have given way to the sounds of sirens and broken glass.  Flames in the night sky.  Cities and towns under night siege.  Shopping centres waiting for the gangs with their blackberries and iron bars.  Dressed in uniform of denim, shades and hoods.

  And far away, under a burning sun, others wear a different uniform and fight a different battle.  And wonder what happened to a country they call home.

And standing between anarchy and the hoods, a thin blue line.  continue reading…

The silver photo frame on the desk caught the rays of setting sun.  A memory frozen in time.  A figure sitting on a sand dune, staring out to sea.  Wisps of blown grass in the foreground and the distant seashore.   And somewhere tucked safely in a drawer, the programme with a scribbled name, long since faded, on the front page.

The day had begun much as any other day.

The kitchen radio gave out  traffic reports, interspersed with catchy tunes, the  kettle boiled, tea waiting to infuse with the leaves plucked from the warm slopes of  a tea station in Sri Lanka, bread browned in the toaster.  The early weather forecast predicted an overcast July day.  Slight precipitation, bright bursts of afternoon sunshine, before evening rain. 

A rucksack  packed with essentials.  A shiny Thermos of black coffee, cheese and pickle sandwiches and crunchy red English apples. And the umbrella.

  We left behind the towns and cities, bathed in the gray- blue light of dawn, and headed for the coast.

The car park was empty, the golf shoes tightly laced, the rucksack slung on the back. The only sounds were the skylarks, the chatter of caddies and the crisp strike of  pristine balls.  The breeze ruffled the flags, the undulating fairways lay in wait and the wispy links grass still wore morning dew. continue reading…

It was the week of The Masters. The week after Mothering Sunday  when mothers received cards of love and yellow flowers of Spring.  Cooked lunches and walks by the sea.

“You won’t forget” said the voice in the armchair.

“Of course not” I said.  

But I did forget about the promise made on a spring day when the cherry trees were about to bud and the blackbird was building its nest in the hedgerow.  When the hungry heron flew overhead looking for lunch, I had made the promise. But the road to hell is paved with good intentions and the promise had been buried under a mound of paperwork and bills.  Bed changing and burning suppers.  A game with the swindle and mowing lawns.  Phone calls to call centres and dry cleaning deliveries.

The call centre was the penultimate straw.

My call was important. Being held in a queue.  Just listen to all of Vivaldi’s seasons. Again. I got to the top of the queue just as Winter was ending and Spring on the way. Apt.

“How can I help you?”  We spoke different languages.  My nerd to his geek. Things were lost in translation. One way transmission.  Call centres work to a cleverly worked out script.  Each question has a stock answer.  No deviation.   Except between explaining the problem with the phone and the answers, he went off script.

“What did you have for breakfast, madam?”

I put the phone down.

 And the final straw. The car. The journey to the office.

“Any chance you can give me a lift to the office?”

I should have refused. Quit while the going was good. The office was not on the way to the golf club and the traffic was always bad.   continue reading…

It was a week when money changed hands. Bets were won and bets were lost. Matches on the fairway fought to the last putt on the last green.  And green was the colour. Of the team and the dream.

Daughter No.  One came back poorer, wiser and winnerless  from Cheltenham and the race track where  silk shirted jockeys galloped across the finishing line.  Not all of them made it to the finish. . Others came second and someone had to come last.

“I picked a great horse for the first race.  Shame its jockey fell off” said Daughter No. One.

I had chosen my horse with great care before sending a text.

All the money you owe me on Imperial Commander xx

I had studied the odds and the weather forecast.  Knew about the jockey and his mount.  Knew  his track record.  Past champion. The Gold Cup was almost in his stable.  It came to nothing, the bookies pocketed the money and booked another holiday. Long Run stole the dream and the Cup.

‘A fool and his money’ as my Grandma would have said, had she witnessed the transaction.

The Irish returned to the Emerald Isle with their winnings and horses and a St. Patrick’s Day hang over.

There only remained the date in the diary.  The match in Dublin between the Boys in Green and the Red Rose of England. Fifteen versus fifteen. The oval ball. Two scrums. Set Piece. Open play. The try line. One dream.

“So fancy a bet then?” I said to Pancake after another bruising encounter on the fairways.

He shook hands.

“Should be a good omen playing the week of St. Patrick’s Day”.

“If we lose” I said, “the bet will be honoured, the money paid, but don’t ask me to play in your four ball or speak to you.  For a long time”.

“It’s only a game” said Pancake.

But we knew it was more than a game.

“Can’t believe you didn’t take those tickets to Dublin” he said.  “Like gold dust”

“I know” I said.  “but some things are even more precious than gold dust”.

We agreed to differ and that only left Big Rich and the software for handicaps.

“I will email you” said Big Rich ominously. continue reading…

Life is all about choices and chasing dreams.  Weighing up the facts and making a choice. Some decisions are easier than others.  Is it a seven iron or an easy eight?  Does the putt break from left to right? Lag or drill the ball into the hole?  Take the dog leg out or play safe and walk off with two points?  Other decisions are harder. More complex.  Not every one catches a dream or a sunset.  And dreams have a price.

 It a week. Of choices.  Chasing dreams and fulfilling ambitions.  Chance. Lady Luck and spinning the coin.  Heads or tails.  Living the dream. Or walking away.

England were chasing the Grand Slam. The holy grail of the oval ball.  The decider in Dublin.  The Boys in Green versus the Red Rose of England.

Every other year the wish and dream were the same.

“Why don’t we watch the match in Dublin?”

“Never get tickets” said the Golf Police.

“What about touts?”

“All the accommodation would be booked”

We could sleep on a bench or stay in a pub and drink the black stuff?”

Every year the dreamer lost to practicalities. No tickets. No chance. No hope. Another dream with a box unticked.  

The text had been sent.

We can watch the match and eat before the next game.  One day sis, we will get out there to watch the game in Ireland xx

Will be there wearing the shirts.  Dream and tickets on hold for another two years xxxx

The date was in the diary. A day by the sea.  A walk  along the shore where the shingle and waves look out to the horizon and the French coast.  A day with loved ones and oval ball addicts. 

It was written in big black letters.

 GRAND SLAM DECIDER 

A day and date set in stone.  The white shirts were washed and the beer bought.  The lucky socks were on the bed.

It was the week Daughter No. One left early one morning before the traffic built up on the motorways. Packed the bags and chosen outfits.  Colour co-ordinated. Stylish. Classy.  It was the week of Cheltenham and the Irish had come to celebrate the horses and St. Patrick’s Day. Horses. Trainers. Jockies. Dreams, odds and bookies. 

She beat the traffic. Wined, dined and picked the first horse. It threw its jockey at the first fence.  A choice. A loss. A roll of the dice. Meanwhile, the Irish took on the dull weather and all comers and took nine horses into the Winner’s Enclosure. 

The next day was St. Patrick’s Day.  A different outfit was chosen and yet more horses. They all lost.

“I’m not doing this again” she said, speaking the words of all those who back the nags and come off second best to the bookies.

The Golf Police packed another bag and headed off to the six pillowed hotel and the red head.  It had been a meal too far. Smoked mackerel and cabbage.

“That can’t be for me” he said, eyeing the plate with suspicion.  continue reading…

We sat in the car and ate our illicit chips.  Smothered with vinegar and a sprinkling of salt. I wore a denim skirt with a warm cornflower blue top, thick tights with dusty pink roses and ankle boots. My blue to your yellow of primroses and windblown daffodils.  Your lipstick matched the pink rosed tights.  Your eyes the colour of a summer sky. 

“I love the tights” said the little voice from the passenger seat, as we tucked into the chips.

“Tried the jeans but couldn’t get the zip done up. Or breathe.  Even less chance with these chips”. 

We traded smiles as a bitter north east wind blew off the grey green sea. A cold bleak day.

Two feather blown gulls stood forlornly on the cliff top and looked out to sea. 

When we had eaten our fill of chips, I decided to donate them to the wind- blown gulls on the grass.   It was not an idea thought through and suddenly the sky turned dark as the forlorn two were joined by an armada of yellow beaked birds who swooped around the car and the unwanted food. Menacing. Hungry. Vicious. I lobbed the chips in the bin and made a run for it.

“Poor you” said the little figure as I slammed the door shut on the incoming armada of black eyed stealth bombing birds.

“Not my best idea”. 

We drove home and the car smelt of vinegary chips and salt.

We did the cross word.  I took the lead.  Your answers more hesitant.  The words less forthcoming, but we worked as a team.  You got five across -  the Greek horse ‘trojan’ to my eleven down ‘exposed, barren’, Dickens novel.  Five letters.  ‘Bleak’ as in Bleak House. 

“Remember we used to walk passed it on the way to the beach in the summer?”

“How scary it looked when we walked passed on wild wintry days?”

 “Remember when we went into and upstairs room and sat at the desk where Dickens wrote and looked out of the little window to sea? And then we had an ice cream and sat on the pier and watched the fisherman with their lobster pots? And we took home some fish for tea……”

Bleak it was and it fitted neatly with the other clues.

 We got stuck on twenty three across (temporary or conditional – 11 letters), ate fruit cake with hot tea and counted the snowdrops and daffodils.

“Be nice when the weather is warmer and you can sit in the garden”.

“And you can play some more golf” said my number one fan.

 “Without all those layers and hand warmers”. 

Golfers to the core.  We spoke of windy headlands, the lighthouse, tricky par fives  and missing the putt for par. Matches lost and matches won.  We looked at Hogan’s bible and studied the pictures of hand action and hip turn ratio to shoulders. continue reading…

In the end it came down to a battle of the Titans.  A game taken to the wire.  A test of nerve and skill.  Of bantering rights and an Adman’s Dream.

It was the week France travelled to England and took on the Rosbiefs under a dark wintry sky.   Beer had been consumed.  The red wine drunk and bets placed.  Englishman versus Frenchman, with the history of cross channel warfare.

The French rugby coach who believed England were sans amies (without friends) and an English coach of few words and formidable stare.

William the Conquerer and King Harold.   The bowmen of Agincourt and the battle cry of Joan of Arc.  The sword waving Napolean and the booted Duke who rode a white charger called Copenhagen.  A nation who sang for liberty, equality, fraternity.  Who kept the Sabbath sacrosanct and bought their flowers and produce at local markets.  The Blues, who took on the roast beef munching beer swilling Anglo Saxons, who still had a monarch with a head and a super sub, called Jonny Wilko, on the bench who stole the hearts of oval ball addicts both side of the channel.

It was a game which went to the wire.  A game neither side could afford to lose.  A game of high stakes.  A game which saw the super sub bring down the stars as he kicked cold from 47 metres out.  A game which finished 17-9 to the Red Rose of England.

It was a week when Ireland ran out winners in the cricket, wearing their lucky green. Kevin O’Brien became the hero of the hour.  A one man hammering machine who ate bowlers for breakfast and slogged his way to the fastest century in test cricket.  A man who stepped up to the plate, believed and gave Ireland a three day hang over.  A warm up for St. Patrick’s Day.

And it was the week that Big Rich took on Gus.  David and Goliath.  The petrol head versus the Black Cabbie.

It was the week that Big Rich took the driver out of the wrapper.  The driver which had been purchased on a run down to the ‘sweetie shop for south paw golfers’.  A day out for Big Rich and Divot.  A day to try clubs where south paws were not outcasts.  Where they were able to wander an Aladin’s cave of riches.

“Sure that’s the one?” said Divot.

“Sure” said Big Rich.

“Why not try some others with different shafts?”

Big Rich was not for turning.  He had read all the marketing spiel.  continue reading…