It’s still bone-growing season for me.  I have now reached the window of six to eight weeks since I severed the bone at the neck of the humerus, the predicted timescale as to when one can realistically expect the ole body to have grown a replacement.  It appears to be going quite well and I can certainly say I feel so much better than a mere three weeks or so ago.

In fact, I can pinpoint my feeling of returning to civilisation to exactly two weeks ago when I ventured out to fulfill a speaking engagement at Chester golf club.  Husband and wife Brian and Patricia Antlett, the men’s and ladies’ captains of the club, had contacted me in the summer to invite me to speak at their winter charity lunch.  They had me reaching for my diary when they declared their charity (for the second consecutive year) was to be the Shropshire Staffordshire Cheshire Blood Bikes.

Unknown to the captains I had became involved with that very same Blood Bike (BB) group a couple of years back through my husband, Brian, who has been a BB rider for several years.  I was coming out of a bit of a rough patch, health-wise, because of Covid, and knew a return to golf, which has been my life for almost sixty years, was not a given.  I was not quite well enough to be out and about much but was well enough to be getting a little bored, so followed up on his suggestion to train as a controller.

As many of you will be aware this group covers Staffordshire and Shropshire as well as Cheshire, an area of 3500 square miles, and in November the charity completed job number 50,000 since it began life back in 2004.  The service is staffed completely by volunteers – 24 hours a day, seven days a week and, for this year anyway, 366 days a year.  It’s quite an operation.

It was a pleasure to be back in a golf club setting and meeting the feisty, dynamic membership of Chester golf club.  The zest for life, living, golf and socialising on display was an absolute joy and a veritable breath of fresh air to someone who has been housebound (aka imprisoned!) for large lumps of time over the last three years, for one reason or another.  Many are past their golfing days but remain faithful members of the club, attending the numerous social events and keeping in touch with their pals.

Charities like ours rely totally on fundraising and the magnificent support we have had from Chester golf club is not something we ever take for granted.  It never ceases to amaze me how deeply people reach into their pockets even though seemingly assaulted with requests for help from all sorts of good causes.  Thank you one and all.

All through this year I have harboured hopes and intentions of getting back out playing golf but, alas and alack, the realisation that my playing days are now behind me can no longer be ignored.  I can’t say I haven’t given it a decent shot with every ounce of me over the last three years having been poured into regaining my health and my fitness to play.  Unfortunately, the body says “No!” so I’ve decided to give in (not so) gracefully.

The sister, of course, refuses to accord me a jot of sympathy, delivering utterances such as, “No more worrying about the yips, then – so that’s a relief” and “Well, you can’t play as well as you used to!”  It’s impossible to argue with either of those statements and, to be honest, this outcome has been on the cards for a long time.  My last round of golf was October 2021 and I doubt I’ve totalled 18 holes since.

It was Patricia who told me of Henry Longhurst’s relief at finally ceasing to grapple with the game – he was a fellow sufferer of the yips or “twitches” as he called it and one day a small voice in his head said, “You don’t HAVE to do this.”

He wrote about this revelation in his marvellous book “My Life and Soft Times”:  “A great wave of relief came over me and on D-Day, 1968, I put the clubs up in the loft with the water tanks, closed the hatch, removed the steps and walked away.  Nor have I for one second regretted it.”

Unlike Henry, I leave the game wanting to have played more, but strangely at peace now for not being able to do so.

A healthy lack of sympathy from my nearest and dearest allows for no self-indulgent pitying, so my thoughts are turning to a replacement activity.  Seeing as it was power-walking which resulted in the most recent tumble I’ve decided to give Nordic walking a go when completely recovered.  The poles might help me remain upright, I’m hoping.  I have several friends who have enjoyed this pastime and assure me, if done properly, it’s a full all-over body workout.

I’m fortunate to have expert advice close at hand, too.  Former England golf coach and long-time friend Pat Smillie  ran a Nordic walking company with her partner after she retired from professional golf and she’s looking into a few things for me.  I’m looking forward to it – it’ll be a new chapter.

Just think – I’ve hit my last bad golf shot!

 

 

This is a warning to all those of you who are blissfully unaware of the perils of an ostensibly harmless pastime:  JIGSAWS ARE DANGEROUS.  Yes, dangerous.  They encourage you to sit down and stay indoors, seizing up; they are time-consuming, bloody annoying and addictive.  And they take up a lot of room.

Still, there’s no denying it.  I’m hooked.  The other morning, in between doing some blog, making mushroom soup, watching Rip-Off Britain (older women working tirelessly) on scams and trying to explain the intricacies of my next-door neighbour’s set-up to a young woman from the council’s planning department, I put three pieces in the Isles of Scilly.  Yes, a whole three.  And I was ecstatic.

Mo’s back and she’s got plenty to say on the golf front, so I’ll just say congrats to Nelly Korda, world No 1 and LPGA Rolex Player Of The Year, on a wonderful season, ditto Lydia Ko, the latest Hall of Famer and, of course Jeeno Thitikul, who won the CME Group Tour Championship and a first prize of $4 million.  The young Thai, still only 21, snatched the season-ending title from America’s Angel Yin with an eagle, birdie finish.

I must admit I was pulling for Angel, who’s been one of my favourites ever since I saw her at the AIG Women’s Open at Walton Heath.  It was the way she behaved with her pro-am partners and the crowd, engaging and entertaining, just what you’d hope for.  And not something every professional golfer understands, no names, no pack drill.

Thitikul, still in shock, was asked what she’d be doing with the money and said, “Spending it!  But don’t tell my parents.”  Brilliant.

Talking of spending, I went on a bit of a splurge earlier this week, albeit without the backing of a few million in the bank.  There was a trip to Costco, which may be good value but is never cheap and in the run up to Christmas, there was stocking up to do and that included presents as well as the basics.  The queues at the check-outs were long and winding but I made it through relatively unscathed – unlike the bank account.

As I was leaving, by sheer good luck the queues for the petrol station – 124.9 for ordinary unleaded – were no longer clogging up the dual carriageway, so I nipped in to fill up the tank and headed home:  Costco conquered, customer cream crackered.

Then, the next day, at my suggestion, three pals and I headed to Nottingham on a shopping trip.  It was my idea, for my benefit but luckily for me my friends are always up for a jaunt and miraculously we found a date that suited us all.  We took the train and wonder of wonders, it all ran smoothly.

Once in Nottingham, not somewhere any of us knows well, we worked out how to use the trams – with the help of locals, amused and bemused by the cluelessness of a quartet of oldies on a day out to the big city; checked out Lakeland; selected a  coffee shop out of the rain; and, eventually, found ourselves heading in the right direction for Megan Crook Textiles, the object of the exercise.

It’s a small workshop, specialising in bright, vibrant colours and zany patterns and we were pretty much left to our own devices as we browsed the rails.  My personal shoppers were patience personified as they critiqued colour choices and sizes and did a brilliant job of helping me spend what remained of my money.  I can’t thank them enough.  Their good humour and tolerance were above and beyond.

We celebrated at a Chinese restaurant nearby that had been recommended by a grandson who’d been at uni in Nottingham and the food more than lived up to expectations.  Delicious.

The train back to Tamworth pulled in on time, just as we arrived on the platform, we got seats together, there were no delays and the whole outing could hardly have gone better.  Amazing.

Back in Lichfield, we’ve had a new lake in the park thanks to sundry storms, so the swans and labradors are happy – and the photographers, if not all the parkies, who can’t get at a lot of their equipment because the compound is cut off.  I’m rooting out the walking pole for depth-testing purposes – even waders might not be protection enough and the mid-length wellies are definitely out of their element.   It’s too cold for the swimming cozzie, so lots of diversions are in order because so many paths are impassable – or invisible.

Perhaps we should just hunker down with our jigsaws until the waters recede….

 

 

 

 

About this time last week my lovely next-door neighbour, knowing my propensity for being peripatetic (sorry, couldn’t resist), asked me where I was off to at the weekend.  I raised my arms in suitably theatrical fashion and said, with great satisfaction:  “Absolutely nowhere.”

Mo and Brian were here, which was lovely, so we just stayed close to home and chilled.  That’s a concept that works well enough in the summer but perhaps not at this time of year, especially this week when it’s been bf (blooming freezing).  The golf course has been closed because of snow (just enough) and ice (lots), so this week’s greensomes comp was cancelled and my partner (the ladies’ captain no less) and I settled for coffee and chat (lots).

As many of you know, organisation is not one of my skills but living on your own you do have to get better at things that are not your favourite or forte, that you’d rather leave to somebody else.  So, I’ve been working my way through a long – and never-ending – list.  Not all of it important but most of it necessary.

Take the football, for instance.  That does take a bit of organising, so I was glad of the rest during the international break.  I put a couple of matches on ticket exchange – Fulham and Wolves – and they went just like that (snap of fingers).  Fulham clashes with a family do and Wolves is just after Christmas, at an awkward time for me.  The Chelsea match, which I’d love to go to, clashes with a longstanding gig with friends but a fellow Spurs supporter has laid claim to the ticket, so that’s all sorted.

We’re playing Manchester United, at our place, in the Carabao Cup quarter-final in late December and since we’re desperate to win even a tea cup, an egg cup, any cup, I’m desperate to go.      It’s not really sensible because it’s one of those Thursday night jobs, kick-off 2000, which is really no use to man nor beast.  Who cares how fans get home?   And United’s new manager, the next Special One from Portugal, apparently, will be on duty, so we’re bound to lose.

So, of course, I booked a ticket.

It’s a bit of a palaver, not least because I have to change seats – my choice because it’s extra anyway, not included in the season ticket.  I like to try different areas of the ground but, because I’m directionally challenged, getting 90 per cent of my 50-50 chances wrongs according to Dai, I often end up miles from where I thought I was going to be.

This time, if I’ve got it right, I’m right on the touch line, right by the dugouts (they’re a bit posher than that these days) and won’t be that far from the sainted Ange’s main patrolling position.  I tend to be a bit noisy, a bit exasperated, a lot encouraging and a tad vocal when I’m watching, so let’s hope the manager can cope and won’t have me ejected!  Mind you, ejected by the boss…Not a bad tale to tell.

Anyway, I’m booked in to the Lee Valley youth hostel again, so they’ll be giving me a season ticket soon; let’s hope we win without extra time or penalties and I don’t miss the last train to Cheshunt…

Spurs are away at Manchester City this Saturday, we beat them last time out (Carabao Cup game), they’ve lost their last four matches, the sainted Pep has signed a new contract, so who do you think will win?

The mighty Lambs are at home to Dagenham & Redbridge this weekend and it’s only a short – but very bumpy – bus ride to Tamworth, free for us oldies with the appropriate card.  I’m thinking of joining CAMRA (the real ale people) because the X66 stops at no fewer than FIVE pubs, four of them named stops.

Starting in Tamworth, there’s the Fire Station stop (perfect for the Tamworth Arms); then The Fox Inn; the Tame Otter; the Whittington Arms; and the Horse and Jockey.  I don’t know whether the timetable would accommodate a bus pub crawl but I know a few people who’d fancy finding out.  Mind you, finishing up at the H and J could be a bit risky  – you have to cross the road to get the bus back in to Lichfield; or stagger home in unsteady fashion.

And if you started at the H and J (not my local but a little further out), would you ever reach Tamworth?…..If you fell amongst thieves, you might not even get as far as the most intriguing stop of all:  Gagarin.  Too spaced out…

I wasn’t going to mention big-time golf at all this week – the sister is back on the case – but this photo of Rory and Harry after they swept the board in Dubai was too good to ignore.  It’s from a DP World Tour press release.

It’s always wise to finish on a high note, so here’s another cracking photo, a Mary McKenna special to savour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

First of all, congrats to Honest Don, headed for the White House again, to the horror of many millions of Americans and the delight of many millions more.  At least it’s unlikely that his presidential duties will curtail his golf because everybody knows that fresh air and exercise (overlook the buggy) stimulate the brain and improve the decision-making process. Ah well, we can dream.

At least Rory (McIlroy) is hopeful that this could lead to a resolution of the LIV impasse.  It’s a conundrum that the incoming president might be willing to solve but surely it shouldn’t be high up there on a list of global priorities?  In fact, really, it shouldn’t be on the list at all – unless you want to lob in human rights, women’s rights and the excessive influence of multi-billionaires, all those sorts of messy things.

On second thoughts, perhaps it’s just the thing that should be exercising a world leader.  And we know that Bryson DeChambeau, the US Open champion and LIVer, is a Trump supporter since he pitched up at the election celebration party.  Don’t know if Elon Musk, one of the world’s richest men (how did that happen?), is a golfer but he’s also a Trump man and who knows?  Rory, Bryson and co could be playing golf on Mars before too long.

Down here on Planet Earth, my playing partner and I were disqualified from the Par comp because we cut out the loop and only played 15 holes.  We were semi-respectable – one over and two over if memory serves – when we made the decision but my slightly dodgy knee, being a two-ball behind a lot of threes and a dank, gloomy day getting danker and gloomier made it easy for us to peel off.  And we’d made a start on our winter eclectic.  Well done to Julie, who won – 4 up she was, very good going.

Things went better on the footie front last week, with an amazing three wins out of three for my teams – I’m not expecting another week, well, five days, as heady as that.  The mighty Tamworth Lambs, on national telly, BBC2, beat much more mighty Huddersfield Town 1-nil with a goal for the ages. The Huddersfield goalie, not a regular I believe, will never forget it; no matter what he goes on to achieve, how many brilliant saves he makes (and he made one or two last week),  this is guaranteed to feature in all his nightmares.

Tommy Tonks – he’s got no hair but we don’t care; don’t you just love the creativity of football fans and their chants – is Tamworth’s not-so-secret weapon:  his effortless long throw-ins terrify defences, causing chaos and mayhem with their power and accuracy; they’re brilliant.

We were at the far end so couldn’t quite see what happened but Tonks launched one of his thunderbolts right into the middle of the Huddersfield goalmouth, various Tamworth bods went up, as did the goalie (smaller than the opposition) and, lo, the ball ended up in the net and the goal was given.  Cue more mayhem.

Turns out the goalie was the only player who touched the ball, helping it into his own net, in front of his own supporters.  If he’d missed it and the ball had gone straight in from the throw, there’d have been no goal.  And, looking at the television replays, if there’d been VAR, it might well have been disallowed because the hustling and hassling of the goalie looked a bit above and beyond in this more genteel day and age.  In the old days, you could barge the goalkeeper into the net and expect to have the goal allowed, no problem.  Not so much now.  (Though tell that to Vicario of the mighty Totspurs!)

Next stop, London N17 for Spurs versus Aston Villa, who’d rested most of their first-choice players mid-week (and lost at home to Crystal Palace).  They duly went 1-nil up and looked beyond comfortable as we huffed and puffed to no avail.  Then, whoosh, suddenly we were off and running and in no time at all we were 3-1 up!  We won 4-1 in the end and confirmed that as a Spurs fan you have absolutely no idea what is going to happen – apart from us conceding the opening goal time after time after time.

My fellow Spurs tragic had flown in from Dublin to Stansted – it really is easier for her to get to TH Stadium than it is for me – and it really was worth the journey.  Whatever we are as a team, we’re not dull, not entirely predictable but well worth watching.  Mostly, we fans get our money’s worth; if not always the credit – or the respect and consideration – we deserve.

This is where I could go on a rant about the bag policy – Augusta National’s is even more ridiculous and ill-thought out but that’s another blog all on its own… And I’ve contacted a friend who’s an ace at packing light in the vain hope that she can transform me!  It could take a while.

Ireland are playing the All Blacks in Dublin tonight (Friday), which means I’m safe to go to Tamworth v Ebbsfleet (Kent) on Saturday afternoon, then Spurs v Ipswich on Sunday – are you getting a sense that this football thing is getting out of hand!

Ah well, now to fit in the sweep (should I still have a log burner or freeze in an attempt to save the planet); the loft insulation man; the window cleaner who’s going to clear the gutters, the downpipes, clean the sofits, fascias, lantern, all that malarkey; the blinds man – bathroom needs one now it’s winter; oh yes, and the heating engineer because there’s a sneaky leak in the boiler, which keeps cutting out.  Aaaaaagh.

Back to the jigsaw.

And did you know that the green leaf attached to the remembrance poppy should sit at 11 0’clock?  (See above.)