Really, when a woman’s older than the Pope – the Pope, for goodness sake – you’d think she’d have learned a bit of sense.  No nous is not good news.

At some stages of life a bit of gullibility and naivety is forgivable but after many years of shopping, online and off, it’s more like crass stupidity and I’ll never, ever, ever be so stupid ever again.  Ho, ho, ho (bit early for that but the festive season is looming, the Christmas cards and Santas are already in the shops and the cobwebs, spiders, bats and witches will be disappearing soon).  Hope springs eternal.  Sense is elusive.

I have a friend who’s very anti plastic and I’d been toying with the idea of a titanium chopping board for a wee while, so was more than ready to fall hook, line and sinker for an ad singing the praises of the top Japanese chefs’ board of choice; you know the sort of thing, indestructible, hygienic beyond belief, kind to knives and stomachs; with the added bonus of special offers and all sorts.  Ach, that looks like reasonable value, I’ll give it a go (ignoring the fact that my buying bible Which? hasn’t yet looked at titanium boards and their praiseworthy properties).

Well, I put the order in, paid via PayPal and proceeded to get bombarded with emails, offering more stuff, especially non-slip mats at a bargain price – 85 per cent off, maybe even more.  I deleted them all – they all claimed to be from a company called Katori, which probably means Gullible Eejit in Japanese – but awaited my boards with a sense of anticipation.  Yes, boards, I’d fallen for the old extra-special-offer-for-two trick.  What’s the Japanese for plonker?

Anyway, miraculously enough the package arrived, with, on closer inspection, no sign of the Katori – or any name – anywhere.  I washed it, chopped an onion, no problem but then I noticed a bit of peeling on my “lasts a lifetime” product, built, apparently, “from the same grade titanium used in aerospace applications.  No cracking, warping or wearing out like cheaper materials.”  Nothing about a thin layer of whatever starting to peel away on first unwrapping.

Wonder if I could fashion it into a new driver, isn’t titanium popular with club manufacturers?

Anyway, I get an email from Sarah (hello@gokatori.com) telling me that my flash day credit is ready to use – plus up to 85 per cent off.  Wow.  Irresistible.  I write back:  “Hello Sarah, I must say I’m not impressed with by (sic) chopping board – used once and seems to be peeling already.  How do I get my money back please?”

Then I looked more closely at the small print, telling me that it wasn’t a phishing email, that I could unsubscribe at any time and that it came from Vilnius in Lithuania.  You’ll not be surprised to hear that my inbox now includes a message entitled “Mail &  Sarah”  Delivery Status Notification (Failure).

If I wasn’t writing the blog, I’d be lying down in a darkened room.

Ah well, you live and – if you’re me – don’t learn…

At least it wasn’t a massive amount of money and my stupidity hasn’t had ramifications for an entire country, costing us all billions for bugger all:  aka HS2.  We at WHGC did get a new clubhouse because the old one had to be demolished to make way for the railway line that more or less cut the course in half.  The latest estimate is that there might be a line some time in the 2030s.  Trains?   Who knows!

They’ve built us a tunnel for use when the line materialises but at the moment it’s fenced off and has recently acquired CCTV; a disembodied voice, presumably activated whenever you get too close to the fence, that warns you to keep off (or similar); and some blue netting, installed quietly under cover of darkness.  Well, it was put in at some time between last Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning, who knows why or by whom, probably charged at double, maybe triple time.  Think my peeling chopping board may be a better deal.

I’d been hoping that Banksy would make a trip to the Midlands to embellish our concrete folly and perhaps it’ll pique his interest now that it’s a little bit more tricky to access.  Not sure I’ll live long enough to see the structure smothered in bougainvillea but with global warming gathering pace, who knows…

Meanwhile, at the DP World India Championship at Delhi Golf Club, torrential rain and lightning caused a five-hour delay on the first day and several groups didn’t even get started.  Rory McIlroy, inspired to join the baggy-trouser brigade by Tommy Fleetwood, played with the Englishman and their Ryder Cup teammate Bob MacIntyre.  The Scot’s fashion sense is sometimes suspect but he was beyond reproach this time, not a baggy tartan troo in sight and he finished with a 68, four under par, two strokes better than his playing partners.  Niklas Nórgaard Moller, of Denmark, was leading on six under.  (Apologies  for the lack of a fashion pic.  It’s not like the European Tour to miss a trick so perhaps I’m the one who’s missed it.)

Finally, I just have to mention another Dane, Hamish Brown, who’s playing on the HotelPlanner Tour but is on track to return to the big tour after a 63, nine under par, in the first round of the Hangzhou Open in China.  He leads by two shots after a round he described as “nice and easy.  It’s very rare you have easy rounds but today was one of them and it was an absolute pleasure….It worked today but it’s only Thursday morning.  It’s always easier than it is on Sunday afternoon.”

The name couldn’t be more Scottish but Brown is a genuine Dane, born and bred – his father is a Scot – and has won in China before, so the vibes are good.

 

 

 

 

It’s a long time since we’ve dared mention the dread words “dress code” in the blog, even though it’s a subject that is guaranteed to divide opinion and set people commenting; it’s as near viral as we’ve ever got.

I was reminded of this the other day when, by sheer chance and good fortune, on holiday in Northumberland, waiting for the camper van kettle to boil, I spotted a sight that made me laugh, then shriek with joy; well, I exaggerate slightly because being a well drug up golfer and within earshot of the player sizing up his shot, I internalised the shrieking – at some danger to my entire system.

Fortunately my phone was to hand so I managed a couple of snaps to record the moment and prove to my travelling companions that there was no way to exaggerate what I saw; it didn’t quite defy description but it was well beyond the scope of even my colour chart – and that has included some eye-watering efforts, not all of them successful.

We were parked up in Alnmouth, by the beach, just alongside the 1st – and I think the 10th fairway – and it was a busy afternoon with lots of four balls on the links, England’s oldest 9-holer, dating back to 1869. Whatever the competition was, from what we saw there was only one winner of the “outfit du jour”.  We doubted it was available from the wee selection in the clubhouse because the plumage struck us as more exotic – from Bermuda perhaps, or Haiti or the latest John Daly collection.

We’ll make the assumption, without much fear of contradiction, that this player is not the shy, retiring type and the rest of his group seemed to be attired in regulation black or navy, leaving the fairway fashion stakes in a pair of safe, if flamboyant hands.

Whoever you are, thank you so much: you made my day, my week, probably my year.

This trip did not include golf clubs, though there are plenty of courses to choose from but beaches and dog walking had priority, plus bookshop browsing and brewery visiting. The weather was glorious and we had some laughs, especially when three old dolls and a dog boarded the bus to Alnwick, settled down, then discovered they had to get off at the next stop.

“Are you going shopping in Alnwick?” one of our number, a natural chatter, asked the woman sitting next to her. Looking puzzled, the local said, “Oh no, pet, I’m going to Morpeth.”

Oops. Wrong bus. We were heading south instead of north.

We got off, turned a few circles – well, we did have a dog – and set off to find another stop with a bus heading in the right direction. Fortunately it wasn’t raining and we filled in the time playing I-Spy for beginners – TP (telegraph pole – that took a while); L (logs – that took a bit longer): and B (bin – we were warming up!). Fortunately, the X20 turned up and put us out of our misery.

Mulling things over on the way home to the landlocked Midlands – Alice and I are stretched out in the back with plenty of time to think, or sleep, or write the blog – it struck me that we are excellent visitors even though we spend a lot of time throwing balls on the beach. We eat out often; buy books; buy beers from the local brewery, eventually cheering up the grumpy man who came to serve us – “two of us doing the work of twenty and it’s delivery day!”; load up with freshly-landed fish from the local fishery; splash out on glorious, irresistible earrings from a local silversmith; buy more books; consume numerous teas and coffees with occasional cake; load up with stuff from the old-fashioned choc-a-bloc ironmongers; and expand the savvy Leanne’s customer base as we add to our wardrobe…

The local economy will take a bit of a hit now we’ve gone home!

The last coffee in Amble, sitting in the sunshine by the harbour, was spent chatting with a man from Worthing, who is now a season ticket holder at Brighton but, would you Adam and Eve it, is a lifelong Spurs supporter. (N17 is as awkward to get to from his neck of the woods as it is from mine!)

We had a bit of a chat, as you can imagine and it turns out that he was a decent goalie in his day – not quite good enough to get to the very top but when he played for Wealdstone his left back was Stuart Pearce who went on to win 78 caps for England!  There were more tales but suffice to say, he and his daughter were going to stay in Sunderland on Saturday, so he could watch Brighton at the Stadium of Light…

My lot are playing at Manchester United this weekend, so I need travel no further than the telly. I’ll do the washing, freeze the fish, remind myself how the heating works, thank the neighbours for taking in post and parcels and finish sorting out the trip finances, with heartfelt thanks to Brian, the spreadsheet king, who has completed the first half and shown me the way, fingers crossed!

Then I’ll work out how many rounds of golf I need to play to get full value for my subscription, paid in full at the end of September.

The highs and lows of this blog know no bounds:  from Europe’s sublime Solheim success to the ridiculousness of my feet.  Well, keeping them dry and that’s not really that ridiculous, not if you have to spend more than half a day traipsing around in wet socks.

I knew it was a risk heading to the Netherlands – a country no drier than the UK – with a very comfortable new pair of trainers lacking in only one aspect:  they were (are) not waterproof.  And I got my comeuppance on a very wet Sunday when there were muddy patches and puddles here, there and everywhere; it proved impossible to dodge them all.  My goats hair socks did help limit the discomfort because they seemed to be water resistant to a degree, though that surely shouldn’t be the case.

Why not?  Well, Maureen informed me that goats don’t like the rain because their coats lack silicone (I think that’s what she said) – unlike sheep, who can cope with the most inclement weather because they’re designed for it, a bit like labradors, at least if the sainted Alice is anything to judge by.  On the way to the Barnarbus golf club we used to pass a goat sitting on a tractor (parked) surveying the passing scene and he was nowhere to be seen on the Sunday, so if the goats are inside, it’s either raining or about to…

Anyway, on the recommendation of a very active friend, I decided to take my feet on a little jaunt to (Royal) Leamington Spa, to Lockwoods, where they look after skiers, walkers, climbers and trekkers, including as it turns out those foolish enough to totter up and down to Tottenham on a regular basis.  Admittedly, we’re not their core business and I didn’t own up to being a Spurs supporter – Russell struck me as a serious soul rather than one of life’s chatters – though I did stress that my walking was more of the gentle walk-in-the-park and on-the-footpath variety.

My feet were measured in the old-fashioned way, with one of those metal gauges that I remember from the days of school sandals, my lumps and bumps were taken into consideration and two pairs of shoes were brought out, both comfortable, both waterproof, both well into three figures (of course; I am my mother’s daughter when it comes to an unerring eye for quality aka top of the range aka expensive).  After wandering about the shop, I decided on a pair and then asked if they had it in a “boot”, pointing to one on display.  It didn’t really count as a boot I was told (not really admonished but almost), more a shoe with a cuff.  So, that’s what I ended up with.

I don’t suppose they’ll be permitted in the Spurs boardroom but since I can’t even get through to the ticket office, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be invited to put the shoe code to the test.  All being well with the travel arrangements, I’ll be in St Andrews for the captain’s drive in this morning (Friday 0800!!), so I’ll let you know if they’re allowed over the threshold of the R and A clubhouse…

It was only when I got home – much quicker than I got there but that’s another travel tale – that I realised that we’d moved into the realms of men’s sizes, hardly surprising considering the widths (and lengths) we had to go to.  Men being men the colour palate is limited (though I do know a few peacocks thank goodness) but they’ve used a bit of imagination with the description:  “sea turtle and roasted pecan.”   Ah well, I look forward to years of striding out in comfort.

My journey to Leamington, avoiding motorways, involved a delightful trundle through the Warwickshire countryside, along the Fosse Way, with signs reminding me constantly that I was on a rural road and that it was better to get home safely rather than rush to my death, bends and crossroads being particularly dangerous.  I paid attention and tootled along, all going well until about six miles from Leamington, just after Princethorpe, when I came across a crucial road closure, crucial insofar as it meant retracing my steps and finding a more roundabout route.  Ah well, it could hardly count as a proper journey if there were no unexpected, inconvenient diversions.

I had hoped to be back home in time for lunch but fortunately there was a cracking sandwich shop just round the corner from Lockwoods and I fortified myself there before shopping.

 

There’s  just about space left to congratulate Charlotte Heath on her maiden victory on the LET, in the La Sella Open, Denia, Alicante.  The event was reduced to 54 holes because the Saturday was washed out but the Englishwoman, who led by four shots going in to the final round, had a nervy day, with her lead whittled away as Helen Briem, Shannon Tan, Alessanndra Fanali and Alice Hewson all threatened.  It was bright but breezy, so in the tricky conditions, Heath held on and birdied the last for a round of 73, one over par, two shots ahead of her compatriot Hewson and Fanali, of Italy.

“You probably didn’t want to be in my head on that golf course today,” Heath said.  “I was thinking I was going to shank it, hook it, pull it….you never know.  Alex [Long, her caddy] kept the ship steady all day.  He kept me so calm…When the pressure is on, negative thoughts can creep in, so I’m very, very happy to get it done.”

Here’s to many more.

Oh, and to lower the tone again, I’m off the bottom of the PYP (Pick Your Pro) table – if only just, thanks to Rory and Aaron finishing second at Wentworth.  Am now just over $300,000 ahead of the new tail gunner but still a bit adrift – 13 million dollars – of the leader…

 

 

Scrolling through my many emails the other day, I came across a piece that came highly recommended, an article in The Atlantic magazine by Lily Meyer.  Its slightly unwieldy title is:  An Ingredient That’s All Too Rare in Adult Life and it’s subtitled “Whatever happened to being silly?”

Now, that’s more like it and it made me think immediately of the Solheim Cup, where silliness is obligatory and those of us togged out in ordinary golf-watching gear are made to feel underdressed and a little embarrassed that we haven’t made more of an effort.  For example, at our hotel in Eindhoven, Mo was taken aback when the lift door opened and a gang of middle-aged and elderly women poured out, all attired in European blue and yellow, with flags and hats to match.  There was nothing understated about it and they were off to have a ball, cheering on Europe at Bernardus Golf.

The first Solheim Cup, rushed into production with little preparation at Lake Nona, in Florida, in 1990 was lowkey and understated but the handful of European supporters had already started writing songs for all the players and it has grown into a grand tradition.  The racket now includes walk-on music for each player and a disc jockey to keep the crowd entertained and revved up but some of my more traditional friends hadn’t kept up with the programme.  “What’s all the loud music about?” one of them asked, baffled.  Then, on being enlightened, “Crumbs, whatever next?”

Nowadays there are twelve singles matches, so for a couple of hours and more the noise from the 1st tee reverberates around the course and the players already out there doing battle have to take that into account whenever they’re hitting a shot.  It also can’t be an easy atmosphere if you’re fond of a few minutes of quiet contemplation before setting off.  Fortunately for Europe their rookies seemed to revel in the rowdiness and embrace the hubbub:  Mimi Rhodes, Nastasia Nadaud and Julia Lopez Ramirez,  looked as though they were having a ball and the latter two won their singles.  Rhodes was comfortably kept in check by Nelly Korda, the world No 1, who performed befitting her status and won 4 and 2 but the Englishwoman relished the occasion.

It was a joy to see players embracing the challenge and competing fiercely but with a smile, buoyed up by devoted fans who were also determined to enjoy the contest.  Even if the golf had been dull and boring – which it wasn’t – the fans were determined to be anything but.  Some outfits were years in the planning and the preparation and would have been a credit to The Great British Sewing Bee, a programme that celebrates creativity and seamless stitching.

 

The Swedes are always easily recognisable and this year there were two of them to cheer on, as well as captain Anna Nordqvist, of course.  Linn Grant and Maja Stark won three matches together – two foursomes and one four ball and their scalps included the previously unbeaten pairing of Nelly Korda and Allisen Corpuz in the foursomes on Saturday morning, a session the Europeans won 3-1.  Seasoned observers (old farts like me) questioned some of Nordqvist’s choices but putting her compatriots together wasn’t one of them.

 

Putting Charley Hull and Lottie Woad together four times – three defeats, one half – was one of the head scratchers but the highly ranked Englishwomen came good at the end, with wins in the singles; Hull at the top defeated Megan Khang, always tough to beat and an asset to any side; Woad, a rookie at this level, took care of Auston Kim in match eight and the Europeans were as good as home and hosed; it was all official when Carlota Ciganda finished off Jennifer Kupcho in the penultimate match.  Olé, olé, olé indeed.

Just as Ciganda did her Seve/Chema act yet again (this is the second time she’s been credited with posting the winning point, to match Catriona Matthew), it’s a group of Spanish spectators who go top of the outfits, doing themselves and their nation proud with their flounce and flamboyance.  If you think golf’s dull and boring, come to the Solheim Cup.  The golf is usually excellent, the rivalry fierce but fair and the outfits are unsurpassed.

The American spectators did their best but were outnumbered and perhaps cautious of their reception after the disgusting behaviour at the Ryder Cup at Bethpage, kept a relatively low profile.  Expect a lot better from them at Valhalla in Kentucky in 2028.  The Europeans will undoubtedly need a large luggage allowance if they’re to win the battle of the sartorial silliness next time.

Some more pics to finish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, here are the four not-so-intrepids who watched the end of the match unfold in the bar.

 

And the four stalwarts who stayed out there cheering until the end.  Viva the Whittington Heathens.