Sunday being my traditional sleepy-inny-dayie I was still shell-shocked as The Buddy and I teed off at 7.45a.m. I’m sure I’ll get used to it eventually. 1st Hole was a bit slow – I firmly believe my co-ordination was tucked up warm and happy in bed, the bowsie. I chugged along quite happy, nearly making some scores along the way. And then there was the 6th. In hindsight, I should have paid more attention when the tune of Chris Rea’s “Road to Hell” could be heard whispering through the tree tops.
I stood up to drive, utterly determined to break my habit of bouncing drives across the 5th green. And I did succeed, after a fashion. My ball remained happily on the 6th tee box. So I hit it with my 5 iron and it bounced across the 5th green and into the nice bunker on the right. There was a brief and unexplained meteorological event when a thunderstorm broke out around that part of the course for about 15 seconds. I did just make it to the fairway before the scratch attack recurred.
On the 7th, having succumbed to the magic magnetic ball attracting tree on the fairway, I hit a perfectly distanced if slightly off-directional shot which I SAW land in the bunker. I strode up, sandwedge in hand, all ready to go. And there I stood at bunker’s edge desperately seeking out my ball. See it I could not for way too long. I had obviously hit him way too hard and he’d rolled through the dew and cunningly camouflaged himself in sand, quaking in fear and impotent anger.
There was a lot of scratching on the front 9. But bits were good – my waking-between-the-shots was exemplary.
So, there we were at the 13th. The Buddy, playing off the Big Ol’ Blues, was away off to drive first. I was on the nice enclosed 13th Ladies’ Tee, going through the shot-organising routine. How terribly rudely was I interrupted all of a sudden. There was the audible whistling of an approaching ball (you know – just long enough to panic, too short to react) and a resounding thump & ricochet off the fabulous fir tree shield. My fright was only taking hold when it got scared off by two horrified pigeons who had probably been coyly courting in the trees when a golf ball interrupted proceedings. Dangerous game this golf. There were feathers, squacking and flapping. And the poor pigeons were upset too.
I recovered well (over time) and made it onto the 17th green in two (hey, it’s good for me). Then I 4 putted. Oh dear no…
So there it was – the 18th. The one last chance to do something – anything – worthy for the golfing day. I chuffed up the slope to the Ladies’ tee, only moderately horrified to see I had acquired a (captive) audience of lovely gentlemen, gallantly awaiting my drive before they chipped onto the green. And I did it – I hit a lovely, straight, long-for-me drive. Then I hit a peachy 5 iron to reach my second captive audience of lovely gentlemen at the 10th tee. And I did it again – I hit a beaut of a 6-iron ONTO THE GREEN. ME – ONTO THE GREEN – IN 3.