A Declaration of Love
But after a decade of eating my mistakes, weight loss is undeniably one of them. Never having to work Saturdays again has its curious merits too.
But above all, a summer donning sleeveless shirts, tailored shorts and matching peaks – all very tasteful if not a tad dated – rank up there with payday.
Someone once said: “Unemployment makes early rises of us all.” Which trust me is no misnomer.
After exchanging early morning pleasantries with face-painted, briefcased-clad, suited and booted neighbours scurrying to city desk jobs, I too scurry off towards my chez away from chez in search of frivolity and enlightenment.
The sun peaks over the mountain top illuminating splendid size-5 footprints crisscrossing dewy, lush, hallowed green fairways of a discreet southeast London golf course. It’s not just for shepherds anymore.
Those first few nerve-racking holes when the anxiety of life’s realities are surpassed by the magic of er, Callaway Kryptonite, if you will.
Common interests are the foundation of a long lasting relationship, just ask Scotty Cameron. As if a putter needed some self-obsessed worshiper.
That fiery rush you get from a perfectly lobbed sand wedge, like some cheeky non-conformist at an AA meeting. Murmurs of faint praise and yet it thunders in my ears.
But this ain’t no walk in the park. A recent blemish which could almost pass as a scar following a prickly incident with the spiny leaves of a holly bush and an untimely shank into a neighbouring field of dozing heifers. A reminder to pick up some milk on the way home.
Between duck hooks and three putts, this is a prime opportunity to just punch out for the day. Insurmountable pleasure with lashings of pain and a pinch of naked self-serving pity … just as nature intended.
I’m not sure where my story ends, but short of a graphic in HD choc full of pithy insight, I think you’ve just captured the start of it.