Beautiful Bermuda

It had been another tough week.  My little newspaper was headlining again for all the wrong reasons with a global spotlight focused directly on the second floor of an office block in Wapping.  Not for the first time had we found ourselves in this situation. I was well versed in the drill but it didn’t get any easier.

After a sleep-deprived week spent juggling heated executives, ranting emails and smug cardigan-wearing journalists, I was nearing the just shoot me now phase.

So when my delightful Travel Editor Trisha strolled into my office and presented me with a golf press trip to Bermuda, suddenly life didn’t seem quite that bad.  Even if it was to a place where planes and ships mysteriously vanish without trace.  And so it was, despite risk of my being misplaced over the North Atlantic Ocean, I took to my roomy leather lounger on flight BA2232, direct to paradise.

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PGS Wryter Cup

They say balance is a crucial component to any decent golf swing. That may be so, until you tackle Royal Porthcawl in mid-autumn.  Put simply, a Welsh beast of a course. Faced with 50mph winds, standing upright proved more challenging than walking tall amongst the French in our annual Wryter Cup battle.

On the first tee I found myself aiming directly into the choppy grey Bristol Channel.  Fearing that would be the last I saw of my shiny new Titleist, I watched in astonishment as howling gales spun the ball 45 degrees back into the heart of the fairway. And that’s when the problems began.

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It NOT even Christmas yet

It’s like a nasty shank that just won’t stop.  No matter how hard you try, you just can’t get away from it.  Yes Christmas is here and it’s everywhere.

Grandma’s little cherubs have been marched onto our screens and into our lives sending musical shivers down Frosty the Snowman’s spine.

Elsewhere the Little Drummer Boy keeps on banging and the weary warblings of a Fairytale in New York continues to drone on like hospital radio.

It’s not that I’m anti-Christmas, certainly not.  I cherish a tot of festive flavoured merriment as much as the next, but just not at the expense of some pushy sidewalk Santa.

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