The Royal County Down (PBUI) ladies club has some wonderful members but I am not sure that four of them should be allowed out on the golf course. I did my usual quick game this morning-leaving at 9.17 am you can find a a gap well behind the 6AMers and well in front of the quick nine holes after a cup of coffee ten am players. The trick is to find a place to turn back so as not to have the wife fretting at home in golf widowhood wondering where her next nice mountain walk is coming from. So I played 7 holes out and then cut across to the 14th tee tp play the last 6 holes in. Magic. Sunny, light wind, smashing drives, crisp iron shots, dropping putts. Gorse unvisited, stalker and Alsatian frustrated.
I emerged onto the 16th tee to find myself behind 4 ladies who had just cut in in front of me wishing to get in 8 holes before coffee, shopping and hair arrangements. They totally ignored my presence and kept their backs turned with various degrees of avoir du pois as for the next 65 minutes-yes over twenty minutes a hole. They crawled along, chatting after every shot-so every 40 yards or so. Chatting as they contemplated their putts, chatted as they prepared themselves for the big moment of replacing the flag pole; chatted as they lined up their next drive and screaming insanely with pleasure as their balls occasionally went more than thirty yards in the right direction. When the screams had subsided the chatting resumed. One lady spent ten minutes in a bunker creating an artificial sand storm and cackling every time the ball failed to leave the trap. There was accordingly a lot of cackling.
At last they reached the last green. My blood pressure at record heights as players behind steadily made up distance on me and I was going to have to let them through. (A single player has no official standing on a course unless you happen to be courteous) Having replaced the flag the Fearless Four stood chatting in the middle of the green calculating their score for the 8 holes-somewhere in the low millions apparently as one pocket calculator ran out of digits and was discarded like an empty cigarette carton. At last they shambled off into their club house without a backward glance-not that they would have been able to see me for all the steam.
If they happen to read this rant (as some do, apparently) apologies are in order via the comment facility. Failing this they should know that Huttonian knows at least one of their names. This blog is generally anonymous but if I am subjected to such appalling bad manners on this golf course again I am happy to make an exception. So There
