Planning ahead has never been one of my areas of expertise and I’m in a bit of a tizzy as I prepare for a trip to Pinehurst, North Carolina, for the US Open next month.  It requires all sorts of things that I haven’t had to bother about for years:  transatlantic flights; ESTAs – electronic system for travel authorization (it is an American thing, hence the spelling); a manoeuvrable and manageable bag/case on wheels; neat, disciplined packing.  Oh, and a new driving licence.

The ESTA application had to be put on hold because they wanted the number of a long defunct British passport and I wasn’t sure that I still had said document…but a new driving licence, that should be easy-peasy.   On to the trusty GOV.UK and sure enough, it said you could “renew your driving licence online with DVLA for free if you’re 70 or will be 70 in the next 90 days”.  And the licence should arrive within one week.  Perfect.

I pressed the green button saying “Start now” but it turns out I should have kept reading because I needed a valid UK passport number if I wanted to change the licence photo – and who doesn’t?  But even if I’d been happy to stay with the old pic, I’m not allowed to.  We old bints are told we have to update our photos, no ifs, no buts, no photoshopping.  And no Irish passports.  It has to be an old-fashioned form.  D46 or D1…

And there’s a Bank Holiday coming up.  Perhaps there’s something to be said for proper planning ahead after all…

At least the flights and accommodation are sorted, not much thanks to me!  Now I have to try and keep the head and izzy-whizzy, get a move on.  Pas de panique.  Keep calm and carry on.  All that sort of jazz.  At least I’m not up for election in a few weeks’ time, so there’ll be plenty of people in an even bigger spin than I am.

Also heading for Pinehurst, unexpectedly, is Robert Rock, a fellow member at WHGC, who was shocked to be one of nine qualifiers at Walton Heath earlier this week.  “It’s difficult to describe,” he said afterwards.  “I really didn’t have any thoughts of qualifying.  I thought it was my last chance of playing this event and a good opportunity to see where my game was, having been out of it for a couple of years.  I thought while I could still enter, I’d see where I’d fit.  I played with James Morrison and had such a good day.

“I wasn’t sure I could play two rounds.  I’ve been playing mostly nine holes and then the back nine hurt because my back isn’t the best at the moment and I was struggling…Thankfully my mate came to push the trolley.  I didn’t think I’d make 36 but it’s amazing what making a few putts does.”

Let’s hope Rob gets his back sorted so that he can manage the flight and be fit enough to enjoy the whole occasion, especially the golf course.  And, weather permitting, he’ll only need to play 18 holes a day.  Mind you, considering he’s been concentrating on coaching for the last while, he’ll be even less prepared than I am.

Grant Forrest, Richard Mansell and Brandon Robinson-Thompson, an Englishman who lives in America and whose wife is American, led the Final Qualifying with a total of 134, ten under par.  Rob Rock was nine under with rounds of 69 and 66 and the other qualifiers were Sam Bairstow, Matteo Manassero, Edoardo Molinari, Tom McKibbin and Jason Scrivener.  The reserves, after a play-off, were Casey Jarvis and Andrea Pavan.

Forrest, a Scot from Livingston, earned his medal on the day that Colin Farquharson, one of Scotland’s great men of golf, was buried.  A bundle of energy and enthusiasm, Faxy Farquhy as I used to call him, was, among many other things, the sports editor of the P and J (Aberdeen Press and Journal) for many years. I did some work for him, usually from far-flung places like California or Japan and in those far-off days of no internet, when telephone calls were expensive and often difficult because of the time difference, fax machines were the height of sophisticated communication. So Faxy he became – and remained, even as the technology and Colin himself, never slow to innovate, moved on.

One of my favourite photographs of Colin is a grainy snap taken at Ganton I think, perhaps during an Amateur Championship or possibly the home internationals.  Anyway, the press room was a grotty, grubby tent that we surmised had been dug out from a barn somewhere, having last seen duty at a Yorkshire show in the late 1940s or early 1950s.  State of the art it was not and if you were working late, it helped if you could use Braille…Happy days.

To call Colin and Ethel, his wife of more than sixty years, stalwarts of Scottish golf hardly does them and the work they did justice.  Maureen and I send our condolences and love to Ethel, son Keith, daughter Elaine (a Curtis Cup player and captain) and all the family.

 

 

 

The eagle owl above was on duty in the market at Alnwick the other day and, of course, the moment I decided to photograph him, he swivelled his head as if to say, “I won’t be making your day, punk.”  In the end, he did turn back and allowed me to snap those amazing eyes.  Who wouldn’t confess anything and everything under that unwavering gaze?

I fear this is the sort of look Ange Postecoglou, currently the manager of Tottenham Hotspur, the not-so-mighty Spurs, will be aiming at the powers-that-be at the club as he demands a level of professionalism and commitment far beyond what he sees at the moment.

It was our last home game of the season on Tuesday night, against Manchester City, the team that has been setting the standard for the last few years and it wasn’t the players’ effort and determination that was in question, it was the attitude of the fans.  If we won, or drew, it was likely that Arsenal, our deadly north London rivals, would win the title and there were lots of Spurs supporters who would rather lose than have that happen.

That was anathema to Ange, who couldn’t get his head round it before the game, remonstrated with at least one fan during the game and couldn’t hide his disgust after the game.  City won 2-nil, though we had our chances, so they are now odds-on to win their fourth title in a row and Arsenal will miss out on their first title in 20 years.  Spurs last won the league at the beginning of the 1960s, when everything was still in black and white.

I wasn’t there, being in Portstewart and not having reached double figures and on Tuesday I was in Northumberland, not far from the black and white of Newcastle and within touching distance of the red and white of Dad’s beloved Sunderland.  Still, I screeched at the iPad as we failed to score, wanting us to win or draw more than I wanted to thwart Arsenal.  Does that make me less of a fan or more of one?

A friend who was there said there was a strange atmosphere for much of the game and he wasn’t happy:  “Many so-called Spurs fans were a disgrace.  Support you own team 100 per cent always.  Whatever else occurs takes care of itself.”

I couldn’t agree more.  If it’s Arsenal who end up winning and it sticks in our craw, so be it.  It’s up to us to do what they’ve done and get better.  Stop being so puerile – or Spuerile, no wonder we’re accused of being Spursy, flimsy.  Now it looks as though we need a point away at Sheffield United just to cling on to fifth, to hold off Chelsea, whereby hangs another tale!!!

Apologies, sort of, to all the non football tragics who are baffled beyond boredom.

I delayed my trip to Northumberland by a day so I could go to Spurs versus Burnley, who were all but relegated and needed to win.  They scored first – most of our opponents do – but we scored two cracking goals and down they went.  Their supporters were fab and we really don’t know we’re born, moaning about not being in the Champions’ League when we really haven’t put in the work.  Delusions of grandeur instead of hard graft.  As a lazy git I should know.

Amble is a long way from N17 and it’s bliss.  The sea air knocks you out in the most delightful way, gently, without any bruising and ambling is the way to go.  Harbours, beaches, caffs, pubs, crab pate, lobster if you wish, mussels, pale ale, bitter, tea cakes, market stalls and marble halls (well, a mind-blowing fireplace) at Cragside, a National Trust property not so far away.

The beaches at Warkworth and Alnmouth would pass muster on any coast and Alnwick has everything you could want, including the world-famous, dangerously addictive Barter Books, housed in the old Alnwick railway station.  There you can eat, drink, chat, pat new dogs and read to your heart’s content.  It is irresistible.

Dogs are welcome almost everywhere and the sainted Alice is in her element, only a little miffed if not completely shocked whenever somebody passes her by without a second glance instead of stopping to pat and chat or feed her a bit of sausage.  The sea and sand send her a bit loopy and she loves chasing her ball into the waves or digging holes for it before heading home to crash out.  She doesn’t bark but after a day on the beach, boy, does she snore!

“Are you training it up to Northumberland or taking the car?”  Mo asked, momentarily forgetting who she was talking to (or should that be to whom she was talking…)  Anyway, the minimalist who was once pulled aside by security at Birmingham airport because the check-in woman was suspicious of a bag weighing a mere 12.5 kilos on its way to Oz for an eight-week trip is long gone.  If you can’t decide on what shoes to take, you have to take the car…

There’s no Mo this week but fear not, she’ll be back.

 

 

It’s very, very annoying when you think you’ve got half your blog written but it’s in your head, with not a note on paper and come the big moment, computer all fired up, you haven’t a clue what you wanted to go on about.  Hey ho, it’s just like going up the stairs for something and going back down again empty handed because you’ve forgotten the point of your errand.  No panic, just normal service nowadays.

What a plonker, what a numpty, what an eejit.  On the radio they said that the first two words are on their way out of circulation because only a few of us oldies have any idea what they mean.  They mentioned other words, including bampot and I knew what all of them meant, more or less.  According to my Auld Scots Words tea towel, they’re all a bit suspect in these politically correct days, though it would be nice to think that we’re a bit kinder; nice but unlikely.

There’s no hiding away from the fact that I am an eejit and a clumsy one at that.  A few days ago I went to the local tip, one of the most disgraceful and antiquated in the area – you still have to lug stuff up ramps to chuck it in the skips, old school in the extreme.  There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of new houses being built around Lichfield and the infrastructure is struggling to keep pace.

Usually I go somewhere else to dump my big rubbish, ever since packing my soil and rubble into bags small enough for me to carry without knackering my back and was told at Lichfield’s refuse centre that it was £3 a bag!!!  “I don’t think so,” sez I and drove off and took my soil and rubble elsewhere.

Anyway, this time there wasn’t much to ditch, a few bits of wood and assorted odds and sods from my bathroom revamp, so off to Lichfield I go. Park the car, take the little bits of wood out of the boot, in my left hand, car key in my right hand, up the ramp, big swing to my left, so my right hand comes round and as I launch the wood into the air, the string I’ve got my car key on gets caught up on the end of a bit of wood and goes sailing in to the skip…Aaaagh

The key, inevitably, finds the gaps and ends up right at the bottom of the skip, well out of reach.  It’s only because I can spot the string that I know where it is.  I call for help and two stoic guys, who’ve seen it all before, eventually fish the key out, with the help of a gizmo of their own and my extendable doofer for fishing golf balls out of water hazards – or whatever they’re called these days; penalty areas I’m told.  Phew.  I thought I might have to find a ladder and launch myself over the edge.

Earlier this year a Swedish friend who lives in Helsinki asked me if I could recommend some good British thriller writers, so I consulted the oracle, who came back with Peter James and T.M. Logan.  That was just a start but it proved a good one.  My Finnish Swede is now hooked and has roped in a friend, who’s become an addict too.  They listen on walks and doing the chores, though I’m not sure I’d be listening to crime novels on long country treks – far too scary, a bit like watching horror movies at home on your own.  Not for me.

Still, wimp though I am, I’ve taken up my Swede’s recommendation and ordered the first of Jussi Adler-Olsen’s Department Q novels from Waterstones.  He’s a Danish author and neither I nor the bloke at the book shop had heard of him before but when ‘mercy’ arrived, the cover boasted that there’d been “over 10 million books sold”.  Wow.  It’s Nordic Noir but I’m hoping it’s not too dark for me to cope with…

Some golf to finish, starting with a couple of winners on the men’s European/DP World Tour.  Many congrats to them and I’ll leave it to you to decide if their silk creations outshine the green jacket of Augusta…

But, there’s surely no doubt about the most spectacular golfing garment ever, modelled with delight and panache by Yuto Katsuragawa of Japan, after winning the ISPS Handa Championship in spectacular style with rounds of 70, 65, 65 and 63.  It was his first European title and he’ll find it hard to beat, what with the euphoria, the helmet, the robe and Mount Fuji as the backdrop.  Who could ask for more? (There was a cheque for 356,625 Euro too.)

Finally, Nelly Korda is the star of the show at the Cognizant Founders Cup at Upper Montclair Country Club, New Jersey, this week as she aims for her sixth win in a row, which would be a record.  She took a few days off to recharge her batteries, enjoy a bit of r and r and change out of her golf gear for the Met Gala, the annual celebrity fashion fest benefiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Go Nelly.

 

 

The other week a friend was pondering what advice she should give her grandchildren to help them navigate their way through life, an area way beyond my area of expertise.  I suspect that drink had been taken because I’m not even sure that one of the children is in double figures, so who knows what advice, relevant or not, wise or not, will stick?  Annoyingly enough the question is still sticking with me and I keep thinking about it, searching for a suitable answer.

Spend time with friends; take pleasure in simple things; rejoice when you take your much-derided bathroom to the tip (remembering that you’re lucky to have a bathroom with running water and an inside loo); learn to read, for pleasure as well as learning; make sure your local library stays open;  keep breathing; embrace numbers (!); look after your feet; drink good wine; look up to the sky; listen to your granny…

That should do it.

For nearly eight and a half years I’ve been moaning about my bathroom, not because it’s bijou (tiny but not remotely elegant) but because I made bad choices, didn’t really like the shower (the dreaded quadrant) and loathed the basin (cheap and nasty and made of stuff that required real dedication to keep it looking semi respectable; it’s only virtue was its size:  small).

At last, after all that complaining and prevaricating, the plunge has been taken and earlier this week, I chucked my bathroom on the tip (no one wanted it) and the sainted Barry is transforming the space.  It’s ridiculous how pleased I am.

Last week I took the train up to Scotland to meet up with some friends from university.  We’re all 70 this year (well, one of us hit the three score and ten last December), so we decided it was time for a get-together and it couldn’t have been more fun.  We haven’t changed a bit – well, of course we have but the characters are still the same, the essence is still there – and we had a ball.

We revisited old haunts, including Arthur’s Seat (as exposed and windy as ever), the Pollock Halls of Residence, McEwan Hall (graduation for some but not for me; it’s where I gave blood – literally), Moray House (for some of the teachers among us); and 36 Warrender Park Terrace, where some of us shared a flat, 92 – or was it 96? – steps up.  We were fit in those days, not least thanks to those stairs and the fact that we walked everywhere – or cycled.  I had a bike but now I can’t for the life of me imagine how I coped with the hills and the cobbles – and the rain!

It was more than breezy on Arthur’s Seat, so we didn’t go all the way to the top and we don’t know if the bride and groom got married up there or elsewhere.  We were too busy trying to stand up to ask.

 

Was there ever more sage advice than “Ne’er cast a clout until May is out”?  This April’s showers have been more like downpours and there was frost on the car the other morning.  One of my gardening friends said that she wouldn’t even consider putting in the bedding plants until her mother’s birthday – June the 9th.  Even I should have my pots ready by then and the borders weed free….

Sometimes, late at night or in the early hours of the morning, the blog’s brain, such as it is, starts to fade and words are hard to come by, so the dictionary is a constant companion and so is the trusty Roget’s Thesaurus, the third edition.  The dust jacket is a bit tatty, held together with yellowing Sellotape but it still does the job and I wouldn’t be without it.  So many thanks to Peter Mark Roget (1779-1869), physician and philologist, author of the Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases and a graduate of the University of Edinburgh.  It was news to all of us.

There were lots of plaques to distinguished graduates dotted about and I’m sure Dr Elsie Inglis would have been delighted – and perhaps surprised – to find a quadrangle named in her honour.  She died in 1917 and was the founder of the Scottish Women’s Suffrage Federation and Scottish Women’s Hospitals and it’s hard to imagine that she was popular in all quadrangles during her lifetime.  With elections looming, we members of the monstrous regiment must remember to vote.  Elsie would surely insist.

I’m ashamed to say that I’d never heard of Elsie Inglis, so I’ve made a note to look her up and discover a bit more about her.  Wonder if she’s made it into Wikipedia?

Finally, it’s been a while since Lichfield Cathedral’s spires have featured in the blog, so see if you can spot them here, against a brilliant blue sky that lulled us all into a sense of false security….It wasn’t long before our historic potholes were brimming with rain water.

 

*An Ulsterism meaning chilled, suffering from exposure.