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. 

When the house was quiet, I loaded up the car and left for the club.

The Swindle was at their usual table.  Much where I had left them in the summer. By the fireside, overlooking the putting green and rhododendrons.

Big Rich, dressed in black, sat at the head, eating a bacon butty.  A cross between Dumbledore and The God Father.  A carb munching, south paw, gadget man.

I knew his golf GPS would be in the glove compartment of his car, his kindle by his bed and a slab of cake and bottle of water stowed with his golf balls, marked with two blue dots. I knew, without looking, that his new shoes would be caked in mud and grass.  And next to him, The Sheriff, also dressed in black with shoes that could be worn on any parade ground, pass any inspection by a Royal Sergeant Major.  The Sheriff would play eighteen holes, generally well, without grazing on carbs or needing a glucose kick.  He would concentrate on every shot and only his Achilles Heel of a tree hugging drive would deplete his points.

I knew Sid would have parked his car exactly parallel to the white lines, always in the same space.  His clubs would be removed from his immaculate boot and placed next to his highly polished car.  He would never be seen in long sleeves, until there was ice on the ground and his shoes would always smell of polish. He wasn’t fussy what ball he played with as they often had a short life expectancy after coming into contact with a driver or three wood. He would always set up 45 degrees from where he wanted to go and invariably sliced the ball. His knees had reached their sell by date and waited the saw and hammer of the Bone Doctors.  But Sid never complained. Sid just turned up and played.

Ruggy would win a prize for the muddiest shoes and waterproofs.  She could never decide how many layers to wear and her ball would always be a new Titliest ProV1 with a smiley face.  Her golf bag would always sit on the trolley at an odd angle and somewhere in one of the pockets would be tucked dried mango or pineapple and a protein bar.

The Busman would always be on time.  Favoured the colour blue and was generous with the balls he found in the rough.  His game depended on the pain in his finger and how long it took for the drugs to work before the tee off time. He had good days and bad days and never anything in between.  Some days he walked the fairways and others the woods which is where he found the balls he donated so willingly.  He liked his coffee strong and in the summer drank beer from a straight glass.

Pancake would turn up armed with magazines for the petrol heads and a joke about The Pope or anything which he had heard the night before.  Delivered with his Irish brogue and sometimes delivering the punch line between taking his stance and his follow through.

“Glad to see you back” said Sid.

“We were going to auction your space in the car park” said The Busman.

“Sure you haven’t been practising since the summer” said Ruggy.

“You don’t look bad for someone we thought might die” said Big Rich.

The Sheriff went off to track the rain on the radar and everyone ordered another coffee. Someone threw a log on the fire and Pancake cracked another joke.

“OK let’s see if we can dodge the showers” said The Sheriff.

Ruggy was worried about her hair and getting home in time.

The sky drew darker and the balls were thrown  in the air.

“Maybe I will just play nine” said Ruggy.

“No chance” said the Sheriff. “Match. Game on. You are either in or out”.

Ruggy bit the bullet, pulled her cap down and her umbrella up before hitting her ball into the bunker.

It was a long round.  Sodden and wet under foot.  The trees were on the turn and liquid golds and fiery reds mingled with the chestnut brown and yellow of the oak trees.  The cobnuts lay in their prickly armoured shells and the bedraggled squirrels buried the acorns for the coming winter. The deer stayed well hidden and Big Rich munched on his soggy cake as Sid hunted for his ball.

“You ok?” said The Sheriff.  It’s hard to lie to a Law Enforcement Officer.

“Fine” I said.  “Fine”.

But really I knew that the White Coats would not be amused.  The Golf Police would not approve and the thespian only meant jump in a few puddles.  The clubhouse seemed a long way off and the hills seemed steep,the fairways long.

We got in before the rain hammered on the patio and club house roof.  We got the clubs in the car and dried off by the fire. The smell of burning logs mingling with wet clothes and hot coffee.  The pot was shared out and another tee time booked.

The supper was cooked and the clubs left to dry by the boiler.

“Don’t tell me you played today” said The Golf Police helping himself to seconds of the beef casserole with dumplings and mashed potato. Sometimes it’s best not to share facts.

“Only a few holes” I said.

“Only a nutter would go out in that today” he said.

“A nutter or a duck” said the City Girl.

“Or someone who likes jumping in puddles” said the thespian.

I thought about The Sheriff tracking the radar for rain and sinking his putt for birdie on the sixth.  I thought about Sid and his bad knees.  All the balls he lost and the way the rain dripped off his cap.  I thought about Big Rich and his soggy slab of cake and muddy shoes. I thought about The Busman and his bad finger and the Taylor made he found me in the woods on the second.  I thought about Ruggy and sharing her mango and pineapple on the thirteenth as the rain cascaded down the twelfth green.  I thought about winning the front nine and blowing out on the back when the hills were too steep and the club too heavy.

“Only a nutter” I said, “a duck, or someone who likes jumping in puddles.”

I put the kettle on and hung the wet socks on the radiator.

 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.

The Golf Police was still on shopping duties.  The list was written and pinned on the memory board.  Every week it went out with the shopping bags in the black car.  Every week it came back.  With omissions and surprises.

“Where is the soap powder/washing up liquid/toilet cleaner/tissues?”

“They must have been out of stock”

“And how come you have got trifle, biscuits and cake. None of them were on the list?”

“And why have you got two pomegranates? Have you ever tried to eat a pomegranate?”

“It was on the list” said the Golf Police, ramming the biscuits in the tin. 

I checked the list.  There was no mention of pomegranate.   

The next day the painter arrived.  He arrived early.  After the birds had stopped singing and the before the paper had been delivered.  He arrived as the duvet was still warm and welcoming.  He arrived as the pillow was still soft and the promise of another dream hung on the air.  He rang as the Golf Police was in the shower and my clothes were in the drawer.  Before the hair brush had been to work and kettle had time to boil.

“Can someone get the door?” bellowed the Golf Police.

Someone threw back the duvet, cancelled the dream and threw on some clothes.

 The painter painted the house and drank cups of tea. Strong with two sugars. He enjoyed the sun on his back and being as high as the tree tops.  He worked hard and sang quietly to himself. He didn’t know about the white coats.  He only knew about top coats and undercoats.  Primer and wood.  Black and white and white and black.  He just thought I sat around all day. On the sofa, watching the golf.   

I tried sitting in different rooms. But each time he appeared outside the window, with his big smile, tattoos and pot of paint. White on white and black on black. 

I found the kitchen and threw some ingredients in the pan. The onions sizzled in the oil and the garlic mingled with the smell of paint. The kettle boiled and the sugar dissolved in the bottom of the mug. I added sugar to the shopping list. And powder, soap and loo rolls.  

When the painter had left, I served supper.  Spaghetti bolognaise.  With shredded parsley, garlic and grated pomegranate.  Pomegranate which should have been Parmesan.

“Different” said the Golf Police. 

“Pomegranate. Parmesan.  Not even close” I said.

“I am away next week” said the Golf Police.  “You’ll be fine. The fridge is full and the wardrobes are being done on Tuesday”.

 And so he left. Packed his bags and in the morning, headed west to the setting sun.  To hotels, with menus and beds with fluffy pillows. Shiny surfaces and silence.

The next day the carpenter arrived.  Polish, with big tool boxes and strong fore arms.  He worked from early until late and took his tea strong with no sugar.  He used drills and a metal slicing tool, which sounded like a tiger had a thorn in its paw. Sometimes he traded the tiger tool for the hammer and the house shook.  The dust fell softly like volcanic ash and coated the house and the pomegranate in the fruit bowl. We communicated simply. Mime and charades. Verbs were optional extras.

“Mirror, here where like you?”

Curtain. Cupboard. Door?”

“Yes. No. Maybe?”

I knew some Russian.  I knew some Turkish.  A smattering of French and Italian. I could say hello and goodbye, please and thank you in Polish.  But not whether I wanted the cupboard to butt up to the window or whether there should be in fills up to the ceiling.  Neither did I know how to say:

“I have a migraine and I need to sleep”.

“Please can you turn that cutting tool off. Just for a little while”.

“Maybe you could come back next week”.

“Are you sure we ordered that bed head?”

 It looked a bit small.  He didn’t know about the big bed of dreams. Waiting in a warehouse somewhere.  A bed bought from a hooker.

And how to tell him about all the things I wanted to hide in the wardrobe.  A space for impulse buys and things to be brought out when the coast was clear. Somewhere to hide shoes and the odd golf club.  Or a new pair of waterproofs.   How to tell him about a wardrobe which led to a land called Narnia and could he build me one, so I could escape sometimes.

We made do with the charades and mime.  I left out the bits about the hooker and Narnia. He still used the tool that sounded like a tiger had a splinter in its paw.  The cupboards were built and we sad our farewells.

“Bye. Hello. Again. Yes?”

“Dzlekuja.  Dobry”. I repeated it in English. Just in case it got lost in translation.

“Thank you. Goodbye”. 

Far away to the west, the Golf Police ordered red wine with his pasta and sticky toffee pudding for dessert.

I went to bed early.  Pulled the dusty duvet high and dreamt of Narnia and walking the fairways.

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.  I knew he would have his clunky pen and would scribble indecipherable notes.  His shirt would be immaculately ironed and there would be a new tie. Conservative. Silk. Expensive.  I tried to find something which had been ironed. Quickly.  Something blue for luck and made the appointment. With half an hour to spare.  I had read somewhere that ‘punctuality is the politeness of kings’. I never knew where that left me, but I was seldom late.

He wrote his notes and we made another date.  For the theatre. Not for Hamlet or Romeo and Juliet with their balcony scene.  This was bright lights of a different kind. Blue gowns, nurses, needles and a Man who said ‘sweet dreams’. The nurses did their pre checks.  Weight. Pulse. Questions. 

“Please don’t write down that weight” I said to the nurse.  It had too many sixes in it and was the sign of the devil.  I clutched my lucky blue pebble, washed by the ocean and she made the six look like a five.

  I made it through the theatre scene, despite the Man with the Knife supporting the Reds and the Dream Man wearing the Chelsea blue.   The ward was quiet and the nurses walked with their soft foot fall.  They did their obs and worked their busy shift. 

“Best you have something to eat” said the nurse, “before you go home”. 

She brought the menu and it was tempting and enticing.  I went for the brie and grape sandwich. On brown with a side salad.

“Do you have someone to look after you? said the nurse, as I headed home.

 “Yes” I said. “I will be fine”. 

I smiled.  I could hear the lyrics of a song ‘Don’t leave me this way’ but I knew that sometimes you don’t always have choices in life.

“Take care” she said.  “Rest and heal”.

And so I left the consultants with their cufflinks and clunky pens.  I left the nurses with their soft leather shoes and smiles.  Their caring ways and big hearts. I left the theatre with its bright lights and scalpels. The hospital with its long quiet corridors, paper work and routine. And I went home.

I read, slept and healed.

The Golf Police stepped into the kitchen and took on the battle of the machines.

The laundry basket did its best imitation of Mount Etna on a bad day. Towels. Shirts. Sheets.

“God, where has all this come from?” he said.  

  He found the soap powder but never found ‘fast wash’ or the Laundry Fairy.

“Where do I put all this wet stuff? he said. 

Outside the line was empty. The peg basket hung by the door. The clothes horse wondered where all the clothes had gone and the tumble drier waited to heat and turn.

 He knew how to load the dishwasher but crumbs and dust were under his radar.

He went shopping.

Blueberries. Strawberries. Cheese. Beans. Bread.

He donned the Chef’s cap and stayed away from the recipe books. He never googled apple crumble or lasagne.

We had beans on toast. And toast on beans. The toast was delicately carbonised. The beans micro waved to death.

“Eat up” he said.  “Or you won’t get better”.

I thought of the nurses and their well ordered world.  I thought of their Chef with his grape and brie sandwiches. On brown with a side salad.  

“You’re not leaving that food” he said.

At night I dreamed of salads dressed in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Sea bass and fresh pasta.  I dreamt of fairways, birdies and putts. 

I woke to toast. Slight burnt.

“Maybe you should have stayed in hospital” he said.  “You could have had your meals there”.

I watched the dust dance around the room, caught in the sunlight.  I knew there would be laundry baskets reaching their tipping point with unironed clothes.  And I knew in the fridge there would be mould growing quietly in a corner.  But I didn’t know about the breakfast tomorrow.  I didn’t know about the lake of yoghurt and the sugar puffs. And I didn’t know that if you put sugar puffs down the loo, they float.  Tomorrow was another day. 

“Rest and Heal” the nurse had said. 

I turned over and went back to sleep.

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. 

No one knows what tomorrow will bring.  Another night of lawlessness.  Of broken glass and terrified mothers on buses who want only to get home to their loved ones.  Not dodge the  bricks and petrol bombs of a lawless minority, seething with entitlement and greed.  Funded on the creaking backs of the silent law abiding majority, into whose pockets the hoods dip with impunity to fund their life style choice of welfare dependency.

Bevan built the welfare state to protect the vulnerable and the helpless. To make the world a fairer place. But Bevan knew full well that it would only work if the honest endeavour of the many supported the few.  The few have become too many.

And the world watches and catches its breath as the silent, honest  majority keep their  loved ones close. And their voice needs to be heard amongst the sound of smashing glass and screaming sirens.

A voice which carries to the corridors of power.  To Westminster  and the world.   A voice which cries “No more”. 

Words have to be dusted down and become common currency once more. Respect.  Decency. Discipline.    Respect is not an entitlement.  Respect has to be earned.  Responsibility walks hand in hand with rights.  Rights do not walk alone.  Actions have consequences.   

Anarchy and broken glass do not belong on our streets .  The mother should catch the bus and return to her children without bricks, flames and fear.

The thin Blue Line stands between us and anarchy and the first duty of Government is to its citizens.  It should unshackle the Police, who have lawless hoods to the front and glance over their shoulders to a tabloid press salivating at their back, watching and waiting. 

 The sirens scream for us all.  But above them must be heard the voice of a society built on the foundations of decency, dignity , discipline and diligence.   Otherwise freedom will lie trampled by the lawless amongst the shards of broken glass and the ash, as flames light the night skies.

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.

The Open at Royal St. Georges. Nineteen hundred and ninety three where the best gathered to contest the Claret Jug. 

The Open was originally a thirty six hole competition played over one day and from 1860-63 the only prize was the trophy and  respect of fans and fellow combatants.  When Old Tom Morris won in 1864, he won the princely sum of a few pounds.  Fast forward to 2007 and Padraig Harrington collected a purse of £750,000 for 72 holes of golf.  

 Practice day gives golfers the opportunity to plot their way around the course and   familiarize themselves with the capricious bounce of the ball on the hard, undulating fairways.  The caddies scribble in their books and throw extra balls to the boss on greens.  Tees marked where the pin positions would be moved on each day of the championship. 

An atmosphere of relaxed conviviality laced with anticipation and the chasing of dreams. The weekend crowds were still at their city desks and there was room to walk the grassy paths.  Listen to the skylarks and catch the smell of the salt laced spray from the incoming tide.

We left the practice ground and waited for our group on the tee. A brother, sister and child walking the links and sand dunes at Sandwich.  We watched the golfing greats tackle  pot bunkers and  marble fast greens.  Watched them miss the monster trap on the fourth, carved from a sand dune.  Studied the club selection as they played the far from fair Maiden of the sixth, battle Hades on the eighth and tangle with the Corsets on the ninth.  They threw us smiles amongst the banter and signed the programme for the child with the shy smile and big blue eyes who said “Por favour”.  Our group of smiling Spaniards. Willing to share their day and their footsteps as they hunted down their dreams on the links.   Fast forward to late Sunday afternoon and the day and Claret Jug belonged to the Antipodean Shark who shot an unbelievable 267 over 72 holes.  Rounds of 66, 68, 69, and a finishing 64.  But if we had our day over again, we would have stayed loyal to our Spanish crew.

 One among them had already written his page in the history books of Golfing legends.  The youngest child of a farmer, he was not destined for the cowshed or bringing in the harvest. He hitched his wagon to a different star.   He caddied for wealthy members at the local golf course and practiced with a club borrowed from his older brother, Manuel. He possessed the single mindedness of most champions or protégés.  Un nino que caminaba solo –‘ a  child who walked alone’.  Except he walked with a three iron.  The school desk was soon replaced by bag carrying and chipping into an old tin can. BIrth did not bestow upon him privilege or a silver spoon but his trusty rusty three iron would open the door marked Fame and Fortune.

 He won his share of championships. Opens, Masters, Ryder Cups.  He took on car parks, roads and rough from errant tee shots, played shots which fell like silken stars onto the green and rattled in monster putts.  He would explain the occasion four putt as “I miss, I miss, I miss, I make”.   A one man Spanish Armada, with a bulldog spirit, draped in the red and yellow of his country’s flag. Except he never grasped the concept of transigir – ‘giving in’, both on and off the fairways and often his inner demons stalked him in the shadows.   

He courted both triumph and disaster. Elation and heartache. The dialogue of opposites.  He had prophesised victory in the Masters of ’86, a win he would dedicate to his father’s memory. Such a prophecy offended the golfing gods.  The championship slipped from his grasp after his four iron on the 15^th found water. Victory and the green jacket went to the broad shoulders of the Golden Bear. He fought the PGA over decisions and slights, perceived or otherwise and his Mafia comment hit home.  Perhaps he should have heeded the words of Al Pacino in The Godfather.  Perhaps his father was too busy milking the cows to teach his son to ‘keep his friends close but his enemies closer’.  They would have made some crowd.   But for all his battles and demons, he wore his heart on his Sponsor’s kit, played the game in his own inimitable fearless way and for that he was lionised by the knowledgeable golfing Brits who followed him outside the ropes.  Loved for his Latin temperament, fierce tenacity and Spanish pride.

In the end the grinding toil and long hours on the practice ground came at a high price,  his days tinged with disappointment and pain as the game he learnt as a child slipped from his grasp.  And the cruellest blow of all, to be given the short straw of poor health.

 Long after the thermos was put away in the cupboard and the apple blossom came and went on the trees, the photo in the silver frame caught the rays of the setting sun.  A blue eyed child, skylarks on the wing and a smiling Spaniard called Seve who carved his name on people’s hearts and the noble game.

“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.  

It had not been a good week. The car needed a service. The renewal notice had arrived for the golf subs.  The swindle trip was only a month away.  The swing was still in transition and the weighing scales were relentless in their honesty. But somewhere between the kitchen and the bathroom, I remembered the promise and  sought out the sanctuary of my desk, with its calming crystals and shafts of sunlight and kept my promise.  The letter was written.

Dearest Mama,

Hope this finds you well and enjoying the spring sunshine. Seems a long time ago we took a trip over to the golf club on a winter’s day.  Remember we parked the car next to the first fairway and watched the golfers fight the elements as they stood on the tee. It was a view which made me think of the paintings of Lowry.  I know if he had a day trip away from the factories and chimneys, he would have painted this little scene.  He would have mixed dabs of white paint with blues and greys on his palette and caught the unforgiving sea, with the white horses making their way to the bleak shore line.  He would have painted the lighthouse on the headland and the bare ploughed December fields.  And instead of his famous thin figures of factory workers, he would have painted the golfers bent double against the wind and rugged horses with their backs to the wind.  Remember how warm and cosy we were in  the car with our coffee and carrot cake.

I fitted in a round of golf this week.  I had a game with the Sheriff.  Remember I told you about him?  Ex Policeman. Always has clean shoes and well turned out.  Plays off scratch in the swindle.  Hits the ball a long way but sometimes throws in the odd dodgy chip. Doesn’t need lessons and hardly ever loses his swing. Bit too much leg action and sometimes his drives find the woods, but he never ever quits and we should have taken the opposition to the cleaners.  Instead, I hacked my way round and the Sheriff ploughed a lonely furrow with his zero shots.  I think I came in on one hole. I hit one good shot and sunk one putt. I felt like a freshly shot piece of venison, slung over the shoulders of the Sheriff and lugged from hole to hole  We have all been there in that dark lonely place on the fairways.  When even the banter stops and the looks are one of pity or mirth.  There is not much you can say to a shanking golfer. So the swing is a work in progress. I booked a lesson. I have my drills and there is now a mirror in propped up next to the bookcase. I tried a few things in the garden.  Stuck a stick in the lawn and tried swinging as though in a barrel and not swaying away from the ball.  Worked well but there are now some divot sized gaps in the lawn.  I am going to point the finger at the squirrel.     

I left out the next bit….

It seemed simple to drive to the office and drop off the Golf Police, briefcase, lap top and Blackberry.  Everything went well.  I found the switch to retract the wing mirrors and made it through the width restrictions on the weak bridge. The proximity bleepers bleeped a few warnings but nothing too serious.  The drive through the woods was pretty.  The blue bells will soon be out and the trees are beginning to bud.  And then it happened. A sound like a bullet and I thought we had been shot.

“I can’t believe you have done that” said the Golf Police

“Done what?” I said, looking for the bullet. There was no bullet. Just a shattered windscreen.

Words were exchanged.

“How come I have driven this car for 20,000 miles and not wrecked the windscreen?”

More things were said.  It was no longer about the windscreen and the stone.  Golf came into it.  The subs, hits on the credit card and lost paperwork.  The call to the fence man and service for the boiler.

On the way back from the office, the width restrictions seemed less generous.  I caught the wing mirror. Passenger side.  It did not look pretty.

I found the motor policy and made the call. 

I left out another bit. 

The bit about the terracotta pots filled with primroses. Yellow. Full of hope and sunshine.  Bought with Christmas money from my Mama.  The pots which were stolen in the night and now adorn someone else’s door step.  Or sold at a boot fair for a chemical fix.  Along with Eric the little stone snail.  The police were brilliant. Said it would be logged and by the way, could I put up a sign warning anyone who tried to climb over the gate, that they might injury themselves. Sign. Or be sued.

Things are good here. The thespian is back from the Land of the Bard and her carpet has disappeared under a sea of rucksacks, suitcases, shoes and scripts. The juicer is on overtime and the bathroom draped in towels and the aroma of aloe vera, moisturiser and perfume.

The Golf Police has retreated to his study and potting shed.

I have made a few good suppers.  Well, two actually. Will let you have the recipes.

Am still fighting the scales. Now Spring is here it is harder to hide under layers.  I bought some new trousers for golf.  Stone colour, with good sized pockets for card, tees and pitch repairer.  I have hung them on the outside of the wardrobe.  As a reminder every time I am tempted to pick up a chocolate bar with the lettuce.  Every time I want to bury my face in loaf of freshly baked bread smothered in butter…. Sometimes I hallucinate about carbs.  Dream about taking a bath in chocolate.  But when I wake up, I see the trousers on the wardrobe door.

Must away and do some chores.

Take care my sweet Mama.  I miss you and will see you soon.

Love always,

I dropped the letter in the post box and went home to the scales, silence and shattered windscreen. 

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.

“You can’t cut me again.  I got cut three shots last week”.

“Leave it to me” said Big Rich.  “Leave it to me”.

The winnings were shared out and we left the peace of the club house and became part of the traffic fighting its way homeward.

Supper was cooked and a recipe followed.  It was a steep learning curve and improvision was called for when the store cupboard was found wanting certain ingredients. Paprika became turmeric and basil became thyme.  It looked pretty.

“I thought you bought the things you needed before you started following a recipe” said Daughter No. One.

I made a note to replenish the cupboard.  Supper was eaten and the plates cleared.  Improvisation had won the day.

“That was ok” said the Golf Police. “You should try following a recipe more often”.

Bowie was singing on the radio as the dish washer was loaded.

‘We could be heroes, just for one day”. Maybe it was an omen. Maybe the bet with Pancake should be doubled.

I sent the text.

Double the Dublin bet x

Your call. Pancake

Big Rich sent his  email before he went to bed. The software had calculated the cuts for the Swindle.  Brutual. Cruel. Unforgiving.  And Big Rich enjoyed sending the attachment.

Subject: Handicaps

It gives me much pleasure to forward the attachment with the handicaps for the swindle. Look forward to seeing you play to it.

I sent one by return.

Subject: Sadists.

You do not seriously expect me to play to single figures?  Why not just take the money on the first tee. My swing has gone awol. I only score because I scramble and you keep stealing my shots.

Yours, Not amused.

Between the golf the following week there remained the weekend and the chasing of the dream in Dublin.

We travelled down to the seaside and filled the time before the match walking on the sun swept cliff tops and paying quiet homage to The Few who fought in the Battle of Britain.

Gold lettering picked out the names on the black granite slabs.A spitfire and hurricane  stood sentry and  France could clearly be seen in the distance across the calm water.

“You can see the forests of Hardelot when its very clear” said my brother.

“I know them well. Played in a Pro Am.  Lost a few balls there, almost got a hole in one and the Pro nearly self harmed on the last day when his putts wouldn’t drop”.

Above the sky was blue.  No vapour trails. No dog fights.  No planes heading for a watery grave. Silence. Sacrifice. Memories.

It was a quiet walk back along the cliff top.  Nodding daffodils, children meandered, dog walkers smiled in the sunshine

The beers were chilled and the anthems played in Dublin.  Only one team could hold fast to the dream.

Pancake sent a text in the second quarter.

My boys are looking good. Bejazzus

Early days.

We both knew the writing was on the wall and the money as good as in the hands of Pancake. We knew from the first shove of the Irish scrum.  From the score board and the yellow card.

We drank our beers in silence and tried not to mind.

The Irish took the honours and  delighted their nation.

I looked across to the figures on the sofa wearing their white shirts.

They were not the English Paul O’Connell spoke of when he rallied the boys in green  before kick- off.  They were not the corporate Hooray Henries with their debentures, bonuses and Bentleys.  They were not mythical English monsters of media imagination.  Just solid, honest Englishmen.  Men who would stand their watch and stand by their family. Who would take their turn in the life boat and be counted.  Men who loved the oval ball and the dimpled ball.  Men I knew and loved.

“Triumph and disaster, sis.  It is only a game and we didn’t show up”.

“I’m going to buy an Irish shirt” said Daughter No. One.

Pancake sent another text and the Welsh were put to the sword by the French.

Later that night, when the embers of the fire were glowing orange we discussed the match and put it to bed.  The moon was shining on the still sea and on the nodding daffodils.

We stood in the garden in the dark and looked out at the silver sea and the bright moon.  Some distance along the cliff top the names on the memorial would have turned from gold to silver. The little planes still keeping their lonely sentry above the white chalk cliffs.  Across the water, the sound of the monstrous guns stilled and the skies empty of pilots and their Spitfires and hurricanes.

“It’s been a good day, Bruv.  Have always wanted to see the memorial on the cliff top and the moonlight on your bit of the sea.”

“Well your wish came true then” he said and smiled and squeezed my hand.

We spoke of the front row and line out.  The prop who scored the only try for the white shirts and the Irish who fought with pride and passion.  We spoke of the dimpled ball. Of swing planes and fairways walked. We spoke of family and memories.  Of smugglers and pirates and suppers cooked inside sea weed clad  caves and  I knew I had made the right call. Best friend. Buddy. Fairway walker. Englishman. The Dublin dream could wait for another time, another year. Pancake could keep his win and his gold dust.

We said our farewells and drove home by moonlight.  Bowie was singing his hero song again.  I turned it off.

On the Monday the money was handed over to Pancake. With good grace.

“We got played off the park. Out gunned. Out smarted. Out played. By your Green God Driscoll and the team. Even the scrum got hammered.  So here are your winnings. Just don’t ask me to play in your four ball” I said. The Golfing Gods were kind.  We played in different groups.

“Don’t forget your new handicap” said Big Rich.

“And mind you don’t swing flat.  Remember hinge those wrists and turn them shoulders till the pip squeak” said the man from Corke.

The fairways beckoned and we headed out to our golfing destiny.

 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. 

“Part of the healthy diet” I said putting a yoghurt on the table.

The next day the room was booked and the bag packed.  The Chef in the hotel of the red head did not serve mackerel with cabbage.  Steaks medium rare. Saute potatoes and grilled mushrooms, served with a full bodied red and dessert. 

Home alone, there was little to do but take out the recycling. And the golf clubs.

The swing was still missing but the short game covered a multitude of sins.

“Thirty points” said Big Rich tucking into his bacon butty by the log fire.

“That will see you cut a shot” he said with delight.

The next outing was two days later. 

“Make sure you turn those shoulders and get those hands high” said Pancake.  “And if you win, I want a cut”.  

Gus and I took on The Busman and Big Rich.  

The rain held off and the Team of Big Rich was two points clear after two holes.

“They just got lucky” I told Gus. 

“No way we’re gonna  lose” he said.  He was right.  We took the front nine and the match. The tip of Pancake had been good.  The drives were long and straight.  Thirty six points.

Pancake came second.

“Wish I had left your flat swing alone” he said.

“Fancy a bet on the game?”

We shook on it.

“I will email you” said Big Rich, tucking into a slab of cake.

“Just so you know what the cut is for next time”. 

The text came through as Big Rich was finishing his second piece of cake. 

It was from the race course where the Irish were celebrating their wins and their Saint’s Day.

Life is all about choices.  It’s about chasing dreams, rainbows and sunsets.  It’s about winning golf matches and Grand Slams.  As Rich ate the cake by the fire, I sent the return text.  

I told Pancake.

“You are nuts” he said. “Nuts”.

Rich sent the email before the car had pulled on the drive.  Before the clubs were by the bookcase and the kettle on.  Before the waterproofs were washed and the supper cooked. Before the man on the radio had finished walking in Memphis, cod fish on the table and someone singing gospel.

Subject – Handicap Reduction

Well played today

This email gives me great joy.  

You get cut two shots to ten. Should clip your wings. And points.

 Big Rich.

I went to bed early.  As the Golf Police dined in his fine restaurant and slept in his six pillowed bed.  As Daughter No. One celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with the Irish and the thespian ate her birthday cake.  

And I tried not to think about the dream which slipped away.  The dream which came too late and at too high a price.   I thought about the text and the date in the diary.  The date to watch the Grand Slam decider by the seaside with loved ones.  And the text which read:

Two tickets for the match in Dublin.  Flights and accommodation.  Interested?  Xx

All for one and one for all. The match would be watched by the seaside overlooking the shingle and the French coast. A day which would be looked back on as a memorable day spent with special people.  The city of Dublin and the black stuff could wait.

And somewhere between the hours of night and dawn, I dreamed that England’s Fifteen stood tall and took the crown and the Slam.

“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.

When it was time to leave, another hug, another look which said  – Don’t leave it too long. Come back soon. I love you and miss you.

“Write me one of your stories” said the little figure by the window in the chair.

“Promise”. 

I promised.

“I’ll be back soon” I whispered and on the way home REM sang Everyone Hurts and I changed the station. 

And between the bowls of porridge and the ironing board, between the game of golf and the snowdrops, I wrote the letter and dropped it into the post box.

Dearest Mama,

Just thought you might like a few words to brighten your day.  I can see you sitting in the chair with the cross word and watching the birds.  I have recovered from the trauma of the gull attack on the cliff top.  Would have made a good story for the local press. 

Breaking News – GOLFER CHIPS AND GETS MORE THAN ONE BIRDIE…

So next time we either eat all the chips or take them home!  There was me thinking it was a good move to dispose of the evidence.  But the smell of vinegar and salt was a bit of a give away.  And the trousers are once again a bit snug on the tee shots and lining up the putts. No, I haven’t jumped on the scales but the jeans are too tight and the  evidence is in the mirror every time I try to snuck by it on the way to the shower.

Managed to get out for a game of golf this week.  Remember I told you about the top secret driver.  The one I got to go with the oven gloves?  The family are not yet aware of its presence in the household. It’s in the golf bag by the bookcase and its very distinctive head cover is underneath the golf towel.  I might just stick an old head cover on it or maybe one of the army of old socks I have hidden away in a black sack in the airing cupboard.  I long ago gave up trying to work out where the other sock went – one of life’s enduring mysteries. 

Back to the driver – it went out for its first outing and behaved moderately well.  Trouble is the swing is in a bit of flux at the moment.  Another lesson is in the diary. 

I gave Big Rich a putting lesson.  I could see what he was doing wrong and on the sixth thought I should put him out of his misery.  So we traded tips.  He told me my swing was too flat and I told him he was decelerating on his putts.  It worked for him and my swing became more upright. For a while. I need to pretend there is a wall behind me or someone with a taser gun.  Pain and motivation.  Works for me.

The Sheriff played a blinder and came in with 36 points. Eagled the sixteenth. Off the whites it plays 507 yards and is stroke index eleven.  He now gets cut to One so is heading for a plus handicap in the Book of Big Rich. You really don’t want to know how I played the sixteenth.  Not how it says on the course planner. It was not a good round. I started with a blob, found a few more along the way and ended with a par.

I skipped the bits in the letter.  The bits I didn’t want to be read.

The swindle did not sugar coat it.

“You played terrible” said Gus.

“Never seen you play that bad. Ruggy is better than you now”.

“Maybe you do need a few lessons” said Big Rich in a strange mood of sympathy and kindness.  Pay back for the putting lesson.

 The worst card is always discarded and to my shame that belonged to me – I will have to pull my boot straps up………

Gus did not have a good day on his approach shots, but at least he was wearing a black jumper. Very useful when we went in for tea and the clubhouse was full of people dressed in black.  Mourning a Very Old Member.  A mid handicapper who loved the game, the oval ball and a beer. 

They gave him a good send off. We sat outside on the patio.  It was freezing, even with the low winter sun filtering through the branches, but we had forsaken our table in the window by the putting green for those dressed in black.

The Vicar was having a quiet five minutes on the next table.  Gathering his thoughts, straightening his dog collar, and maybe a word with his Boss Upstairs.

Dear Lord,

Thanks for the help with the service and the sermon. Thought it went ok. Shame the  Blind Man’s dog tried to drink the Holy Water during the eulogy and the Organist missed a few notes.

Amen.

We shivered in the sun and behaved with decorum, until Sid said:

Oh my God, it’s bloody murder in there”. 

“Actually, Sid” the Sheriff said, “think you will find it was natural causes”.

“Reckon we could sneak in and get some of that food” said Gus.

“Have you seen those cakes” said Big Rich.  “Chocolate brownies”. 

The Man of God blanched, looked over at our table of sinners and added a PS

Dear Lord,

Me again.  Please look out for the crowd on the next table.

Amen.

The clubs are back by the bookcase, the lesson is booked and the supper was not burnt.  Cauliflower cheese and jacket potatoes.  Black cherry yoghurt.

Take care of your sweet self and a big hug. 

See you soon. Promise. And I have not forgotten your story. 

Love always  xx

PS.  Twenty three across – provisional.  I should have known that from the number of balls played off the tee with the Swindle.  Fits in neatly with ‘jardinaire (9 down). 

Enjoy the snowdrops and the daffodils xxx

There are people out there who can cook, work and play golf.  Who can serve a sumptuous creation of light summer puddings or comforting casseroles on cold winter nights.   Twirls, quenelles and roulades.

I do not belong to their ranks.  Their ‘heaven on a spoon’ is my’ hell on a fork’.  Oliver Twist’s famous “May I have some more?” line is not heard in this kitchen.

There are golf balls in the fruit bowl and a putter by the fridge.

I will never blast the socks off Raymond Blanc, win Master Chef or try and reach for the stars. Michelin stars.   I would rather be a single figure golfer, but I know I have to up my game. I need to find dishes beyond spaghetti bolognaise, bangers and mash or left overs with bubble and squeak.

Supper for friends is on the back burner. After  chicken breast in white wine sauce which resembled parrot in emulsion. Salmon en croute, which was more ‘jaws on a plate’. Burnt meringue, tongue stripping sorbet.

It is time to escape the culinary shackles of roast or chicken pie.  Apple pie and ice cream.

There must be another page of the recipe book, beyond garlic bread and carrot cake. Bangers and mash and black cherry yoghurt.

Golf and gastronomy will learn to walk hand in hand. Smoke alarms, carbon and  experiments will be banished forever.  Between lob shots and drawn drives, I will follow the path of recipes, use ladles and re-ignite the taste buds of the family. I will climb my Everest. In the kitchen. And hear the Golf Police say:

“Please may I have some more?”(Oliver Twist)

Somewhere out in the cyber space, there are cooks who can point the way to culinary heaven.  Tried and trusted recipes, passed down the generations or found on the internet or cookery book.  Golfers who can combine fairway walking with the cooker and deliver heaven on a fork.  Bliss on a spoon.  Delight on a plate.

And so begins another chapter. Welcome to Golf Gastronomy……