No problems with the neo-Fishes today –indeed a really glorious morning like those fantastic November days we always used to have before mobile phones, CD players, VCRs etc and when warm sunny winters were a promise and not a threat of impending doom. I well remember….*
The trick with such short days is to get to the Golf Course as early as possible before the earliest women with their carbon WMDs and leisurely chit chat and the octogenarian men with their electrified self propelling trolleys which pull them along the course at snail like speed. Too early, like today, there is a new peril. The Green keepers. These are not like the chatty weather beaten gnarled old gentleman of Duns but tough, fit, dedicated technocrats with cutting edge (and cutting grass) state of the art space age machines. Rocket scientists to a man and wholly committed to their task of keeping the Royal Co Down (PBUI) in ace condition. To these breed of single-minded zealots, Golfers, especially early golfers are a nuisance and to be ignored or tormented. Consequently you can easily spend 20 minutes after hitting an eye popping drive waiting for the green keeper to leave the green you are approaching as he relentlessly and thoroughly cuts every tiny blade –several times over-in that search for the Holy Grail of manicured perfection.
Today, I fear, Huttonian snapped. Held up at most greens the last green was a potential coronary of frustration too far. The green keeper on his wondrous machine was almost neurotic in his intensity-but not too intense in that I knew he knew I was waiting for him to vacate the target area. He had glanced, rather contemptuously, I thought in my direction as if thinking ‘Why doesn’t he play his wretched shot-he’ll get no where near the green, come on rabbit make my day.’ I was actually secretly inclined to agree with him but after another scornful look (200 yards away but I know those looks) I pulled out my three wood and hit the ball with all the irritation at my command. I should do that more often-the ball went dead straight towards my tormentor, carried the bunker in front of the green, bisected the wheels of his tractor-thing and ended up a foot from the hole. He roared off the green-victory! But then to my horror headed up the fairway towards me. Revenge? No. As he hurried past me he opened his bullet proof side window and with a flick of his cropped ‘Beckham-styled’ head awarded me the ultimate accolade: ‘Sticking out’ he said ‘Great wee shot’ and disappeared towards a distant green intent in getting there just before a creeping group of geriatrics could get within range.
They hadn't a chance
* Not too many golden memories please. Blog-ed
