Its bliss being in Newcastle in this dead period between Christmas and the New Year. Despite being, allegedly, a working day, the town is empty. No problem parking and getting a table at Mauds. No queue in the Cookie Jar; no Belfast day trip parkers in the main street who have come down to the seaside just to read their papers and return northwards without benefiting the town's economy by the meanest brass farthing. Only the Golf Course shows signs of life; not intelligent life but life nonetheless. Dreaded Golfing Societies are let loose in this quiet period but thankfully only on the Hen Run and not on the sacred turf of the No 1 Course (PBUI) Thick set men in dark clothing, pulled by rechargeable trolleys, hack their way around 18 holes effing and blasting and massively threatening collateral damage. Sadly it was a nice day so this rat pack may have enjoyed themselves with their impassioned competiveness and cholesterol raising rivalry. If there was a coronary or two I missed it but the frustrated rage of very bad golfers playing very bad golf did not lead to the odd episode of cardiac arrest then Bob was not my uncle, which he was. Tomorrow I will check for unmarked graves.
