Musings from the Merse
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Its about -1C. No wind. No sun. The stalker and his big dog are getting out of the shower, donning warm clothes in the case of the stalker, looking for the Tesco Bag for Life(in the case of the Alsatian) They have a rendezvous with destiny-the rough to the right of the 12th fairway where they have every expectation of finding my slightly sliced drive next to that gorse bush, behind that bunker-getting there before I can. Fore! I will shout to scare them off- 'Its only one' they will mock back scuttling away with my nearly new Dunlop-scuttling to the safety of their new brash bungalow built on the proceeds of organised crime.
But I have a cunning plan.
I will use my very very old cracked, wrinkled and distorted Top Flight,
And I will hook it.
Deep into the gorse. And leave them to it. At least that way they will get an extra prick or two.
And throw away their find with disgust.
Have a really good day.
But I have a cunning plan.
I will use my very very old cracked, wrinkled and distorted Top Flight,
And I will hook it.
Deep into the gorse. And leave them to it. At least that way they will get an extra prick or two.
And throw away their find with disgust.
Have a really good day.
Comments:
I was wrong about the cold. It is a balmy windless day. Pars flowed like drinking chocolate until I came to the 12th. No sign of the stalker-I had earlier seen him searching a gorse bush in a very bad mood-no luck there. So I took out my favourite Dunlop and hooked the ball into the impenetrable jungle which IK had earmarked for Plan A. B#### and d########! No point looking in there-you would need a dog. I moved on. I was about 250 yards down the Fairway and something made me look back. An Alasation emerged from the Gorse and dropped a shiny new ball at its master's feet.
He seemed to be whistling.
Land of Hope and Glory.
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He seemed to be whistling.
Land of Hope and Glory.
