Tuesday, November 5, 2019
I play golf maybe once or twice a year. I do not regard it as ..."a good walk spoiled" but neither do I see it as a sport that I am ever likely to be even passably average at so my clubs (traded with a colleague in Hong Kong for a bottle of whiskey) spend most of the year in hibernation, making a somewhat dusty and increasingly decrepit appearance on the rare occasions that I let my guard drop and am persuaded back on to a course. Tomorrow is such a day and as I excavated my equipment this evening from the darkest recesses of the Cat's room (also doubling as a storage room), I suddenly recalled exactly how stretched my meagre golfing resources had become when the memory of the sole of one of my golf shoes completely detaching itself from the upper part while striding up the fairway on the 18th hole during the last game I played back in March earlier this year. At the time I regarded the incident as being - if not exactly fortuitous - at least fairly well timed as (a) it could have happened on an earlier hole leaving me to shuffle around the course even less elegantly than normal; and (b) giving me plenty of time to purchase and break in a new pair. Obviously as soon as part (b) of the above had emerged as a conscious thought it disappeared forever into the box of "things I need to get round to doing", emerging only at a time (coming up to 10pm the night before the game), and place ( my bedroom) which is not particularly convenient. So tomorrow morning will now comprise fitting a days work into a morning, getting to the course and buying some golf shoes, breaking them in and going to the practice range whilst trying to remember exactly why I let myself get talked in to these things. Wish me luck.