Well, where to start? With the US PGA golf I suppose. Nothing too deep. The PYP (Pick Your Pro) reminder came out, I double-checked my picks and burst out laughing. You get three for the majors and mine are, in order, McIlroy, Theegala, Koepka.
Bear in mind that these choices were made many months ago and there was no way I was ever going to pick Rory to win the Masters but I had to choose him for one of the biggies. So Quail Hollow, described by some of his peers as “Rory’s Country Club” because he’s won there so often, was a bit of a no-brainer. And after his Masters win there was, of course, talk, not just of the career Grand Slam but of the all-in-a-row, in-a-year slam, the Holy Grail above and beyond all others.
So Rory, at odds with his driver, his Excalibur, hooking it towards the water on far too many occasions but not getting wet, just in difficulties that left him floundering well behind the leaders, had a round that almost equalled my excrescence in the Tuesday medal. Almost, but not quite. I had more double bogeys and a triple or two and he did at least start with a birdie. Just in case you’re interested (ho! ho!), I did manage three pars that’ll do nicely for the eclectic, especially since one of them was at my least favourite hole at Whittington Heath.

Reasons to be cheerful? Not the golf certainly. And the colour has now been nicked by Reform. The weather and the company were the redeeming features.
Back to the main event, the sainted one is not quite out of the championship – a lot depends on how he gets on in round two – but even though he’s my chosen one, I’m not holding out much hope.
At least he made it to the first tee, unlike Sahith Theegala, who withdrew before the off with a neck injury. Alex Smalley, his replacement, took full advantage of his opportunity and opened with a 67, four under par, well in contention. Rory had a 74 and my other choice, Brooks Koepka, three times a PGA champion, had a 75.
Strange things happen but I’d look elsewhere for this year’s PGA champion if I were you.
Last Sunday, a friend and I went to watch the mighty Spurs – Europa League finalists in case you hadn’t heard – play Crystal Palace – FA Cup finalists, who take on Manchester City at Wembley tomorrow (Saturday 17th May). My mate, a true Tottenham tragic, had flown in from Dublin (easier than trekking from Lichfield) as a treat and we were treated to – dross.

Gluttons for punishment but as so often, the away fans below us are having a wave of a time.
We were abysmal and well beaten but hope springs eternal for our final against Manchester United in Bilbao on Wednesday. Goodness knows why! COYS. Come on you Spurs. I’m not going to Bilbao but I’m still having anxiety dreams about not getting there – or anywhere else – on time.
My being late won’t come as any surprise to any number of people but I can’t remember being late for a tee time – and I think I only ever missed one deadline, which was something to do with thunderstorms, power cuts and things well beyond my control. I still felt sick and thought I’d be sacked but survived, somehow.
Mo’s the one with the dreams but a few nights ago I had one so vivid that I had to get up and write it down. It still doesn’t make any sense but here goes…bear in mind that reading on is not obligatory.
For some reason I was playing Bernhard Langer. We’re both on the green and he holes for a three. I’m closer to the pin but my ball is buried below the surface in the kind of strangling spaghetti stuff that Harry Potter and his mates and yer man from Raiders Of The Lost Ark get entangled in. For some reason best known to herself Mo, my caddie, hands me a 5-iron – I don’t even own one these days.
I’m standing over the ball, waggling this club, knowing I haven’t a hope in hell of making contact when I realise that I can declare an unplayable lie and take a drop. It’s an interminable time before that light-bulb moment and then, thank goodness, I wake up – and write it all down.
This is ridiculous. I don’t have dreams like that. Every now and again, I’m trying to get somewhere and can’t find something crucial – car key; passport; accreditation; house key; whatever. The sort of thing that reminds me why Dai always packed his work bag the night before and put it by the front door with his badge (accreditation) on top. All ready to go, no panicked scrabbling about in the morning.
All pretty mundane, absolutely nothing blockbusterish, no monsterish octopus-armed, woman-strangling plants. Where on earth did that come from and why on earth was the sainted Bernhard dragged in to the whole gruesome scenario?
In the end I put it down to eating cheese so smelly that it made the fridge unplayable, then the house, then the garden. It ended up in a bin in the park, several hundred yards/metres away. Phew. All visitors can breathe again. Double phew.
You know I’m always going on about decluttering and sorting the place out, much to the amusement of my friends and family? Well, this week, somebody who was checking out my electrics (the house’s, which are at least, it turns out, in some sort of working order), remarked that they’d never seen an attic with so little in it…
Validation of sorts, surely…

En route to the tip.
And most of these are going too.

All a bit potty.
There is a patio there somewhere…
And if it all gets too much and you feel overwhelmed, take a step back and reset.