“Rumblipoos indeedipoos…”
So at a positively approaching lunchtime 8.15a.m. our hardy threesome were first out to break in the course for the truly exceptionally good cause of the Rumble for the Crumlin – gotta do it for the childers… in the pending squally showers… and the wind that caused dainty, tiny wee me to do a sterling sail impression back towards the clubhouse as I ventured out for the first. Dramatic start to the day, but the wind blowing through my ears cleared my head of all needless and non-golf-related detritus so off I jolly well went, empty headed and happy…
But there was trouble ahead – I feared that I may have peaked a tad early as my two points made the card on the first – and there I had been, comfortable in the knowledge that the teenage-handicapped Big Fella and the SINGLE-FIGURED Hearty Scotch would be more than able to accommodate my usual 12-hole warm-up requirement. Scoring on the first? Me? Nevair! And yet I did.
And the rumblies truly began within me as I made the 2nd green with two whole shots left. My 4th had been pin high, just a little to the left. Left as in I was able to have a whispered chat with the team teeing off the 1st. And none of them moved closer. Just fractionally left. That’s all. And then I may have just fractionally overcompensated to end up microscopically off the green to the right. That is a microscopic path, yes? Anyhoo, I was on the green with two to go, and needed I was not – thank you, Gents.
Hearty Scotch did the biz on the 3rd and I canna remember the 4th, so it probably weren’t mine. We were all three upon the green at the 5th. Well, we were all three within putting distance on the 5th – my definition of green may refer more to the grass colour than the more specific golfy terminology, but the Gents were on the real thing. The excellent quality and tremendous speed of the greens made our (their) superior driving and short play shamefully unrewarded as the capricious pins and invisible clingfilm made our (their) putts so close, yet not close enough. The points that were left as offerings to the putting fairies today – gonna bring Christmas cake and porter next time…
The back 9 began with my sterling display of “getting the waterproof trousers on, complete with pocket content transfer in less than 45 seconds” – who said I had no tangible golfing skills?? The effort killed my 10th hole scoring potential stone dead – I was tired – but Hearty Scotch and Big Fella had it sorted.
And the 11th was mine – not all mine obviously, but certainly at least 50% mine anyway. I did it – I briefly became Ms Annette Birdie, just for an instant, and got a lovely, nay a sexy 3 beside my letter on the card. It was just lovely. Somewhat unfortunately, my ecstatic but über restrained happy dance resulted in a slightly pulled back muscle, but c’est la vie. Then came the 12th, the final hole where everybody (me) didn’t have to score…. 13th loomed with a slightly unluckier look about it today… But we approached it bravely and headed onwards to make our drives. (Joys of being Lady Golfer – could hide behind hedge and quiver in peace as part of pre-driving routine…)
I hit a peach of a drive, a peach of a 5 iron and a peach of a Lay Up (is that right?) with sand wedge to a peachy position on beautiful flat piece (peachy piece) of fairway in front of 13’s Pond to Hell.
I then hit an absolute stinky-poo of a shot and condemned a perfectly good Titleist 1 to a watery grave. An unexplained Deep Blue cloud appeared briefly above my head – très mysterious – but I ignored it, dropped Titleist 1 Mk II and hit a peach of a shot over the evil, ball-swallowing water. Why, oh why does it never happen first time? Oh why? But we all scored, so 13 remained peachy in the main. And 14 was okeley-dokeley also.
And then, on 15, came the Great & Evil Distractor – I was stood there, driver in hand. The Gents had taken their drives to happy places upon the fairway and the turn now was mine. I casually glanced over at the 14th fairway and glimpsed two caddy cars approaching the 14th green – not a wee whit unusual… or so I thought. And then, filling my previously empty head came a blindingly vivid image and a deafening anthem – Benny Hill performing “Ernie (The Fastest Milkman In The West)”. My drive rolled sadly off the tee mound and hid in the grass, sobbing softly. Still made the green in 4 and came away with 2 points and a head filled with memories best consigned to the very early 80’s along with my bowl haircut, black elephant cords and brown Start-Rite sandals. Shame of it all.
Moving swiftly on to the 16th, I stood there lining up my drive towards the life bouy on the pond (a little to the left, yes). I stood over my ball and did the usual pre-shot mental routine. Ah, in hindsight what a waste of my time that was. My drive went straight for the magnetic waters of the Barrow and a blessed tree had to leap up to deflect same spherical object. I patted the tree to say thanks after my second – thank your helpers or they’ll flick it in next time. But I drowned Titleist 1 Mk II in the pond, despite his best efforts to skim the whole way across, and Titleist 1 Mk III just couldn’t warm up fast enough to take the big jump. So I smacked him off a tree with my 17th drive and he punished me with a nasty itch that made me scratch the 17th also. Two consecutive scratches. In a rumble. On the last 6 holes. When all 3 scores count. Sorry Gents.
And now here it is – the Great Eighteen. I stood over my ball (we are back on speaking terms – he’s my new BFFL), but as I wished to drive an howling gale forced me back and my flailing arms, while they did retain my balance and save me from leaving the imprint of my buttocks forever on the 18th tee, were not conducive to a good drive, so I stood off. And when I did drive, it was mighty. The two gents and I made our way down the fairway to the 3 balls, closely grouped but with a pecking order also. The Big Fella (Teenage Handicap) took his shot first. The Hearty Scotch and I approached the remaining two balls. I automatically approached the next but IT WAS NOT MINE!!! I got to turn to a SINGLE-FIGURED handicapper and say those immortal words “I think this is yours”. Hee-hee.
And, as a reward, Ms Annette Birdie came to see me again at the 18th. Sore back be gone, let the dancing begin…