There aren’t many advantages to being made redundant.

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.