Caught out - again!

I promised myself I wouldn’t hark on about the weather but frankly it commands everything one does, so it’s an impossible vow to keep.

My golf buddy, Paul, phoned to check that I was all prepared for our regular Wednesday game. He must be a bit anxious about the improvement in my game, falsely believing that all the lessons I have been taking will have me out-driving, out-chipping, out-pitching and out-putting him, because he straightaway covered his tracks in case of a loss.

“Oh, I’ve really done my shoulder in,” he says. “I had to retire from my game yesterday.”

Little does he realise that his strained shoulder, which apparently prevents him from swinging a club, will be small disadvantage against me. I already know that playing each golf stroke off the wee astro-turf mats that are de rigueur here, dressed in several layers to keep out the wind, hail and rain and impeding any effort at a swing, will hinder any likelihood of an Australian win. But I shall give it my best shot, if you’ll excuse the pun.

Nevertheless, when Wednesday dawns and I peer out of the window and see pouring rain and hear a howling wind, my determination to be as hardy as Braveheart wavers.

I telephone Paul and after a chat with his wife Theresa, broach the reason for my call.

“The weather’s awfully foul down here. How’s it up your way?” This is my pathetic attempt at levity because although Scotland is renowned for local micro-climates, Paul only lives about three minutes walk away.

“Yes, it’s terrible,” he says. So, I think, golf will be cancelled which is rather a relief as I do hate playing in the rain.

“So what do you want to do?” he asks, tossing the proverbial decision-making ball back at me.

I realise Paul may be quite prepared to don an extra layer of wet weather gear, but I’m not. And I tell him so. But he’s not done yet, he has a crafty plan.

“I’ve something to drop off to you,” he says and tells me he will pop down to see me later.

Reprieved, I snuggle back into bed with my book, cosy with the rain beating against the window.

Two pages into Ruth Rendell, there’s a tap on the door. I scramble into track pants and there’s Paul.

Over a cup of coffee, he presents me with a very nice golf sweater embossed with his club’s name.

 “I couldn’t bear seeing you play in that sweater embroidered with Gilmore’s club,” he said, by way of explanation for his generosity. Evidently competition with Gilmore extends beyond the 18^th hole.

Having buttered me up, he casually suggests we head to the driving range to hit a few balls. This is patently a man with a bad shoulder, hmmm? But having assured me the range is under cover, I agree – not least because our game is now rearranged for Friday when we will be joined by two of Paul’s low-handicap mates. I need the practice.

Down at the range Paul smacks 60 balls past the 200-yard mark and then slumps on the bench, declaring his shoulder is snapping and creaking. With his beady eye on me, I concentrate on at least getting past the 100-yard mark. He offers helpful comments and then asks if he can try out my driver.

The man with the bad shoulder then drives my last four balls about 250 yards. I am chastened.

The storm clouds gain momentum, hailstones rain down, and we make a dash for the clubhouse, glad we are not stuck out on the 14^th hole, far from cover.

Settled with bowls of soup and glasses of ginger beer and lime juice (Paul’s recommendation – do not try this except in cases of emergency), we are deep in conversation when I spy a familiar figure, weaving her way through the dining tables.

“Dawn!” I call out, surprised to see her so far from the village, here at the golf club.

Startled, she sees me and smiles in surprise before turning her gaze, eyebrows lifted, to my companion. Oh dear.

“Now don’t go starting any rumours!” I say, fingers crossed behind my back.

Femme fatale, that’s me.