Earlier this week I missed an aeroplane, an important aeroplane.  A loved one, who shall remain nameless, said, “I knew you’d miss that plane.”   Tired, cross and furious with myself, I suggested tartly that this person with a mystic gift should buy a lottery ticket.  End of conversation.

Now, I do have a well-deserved reputation for lateness (of which more later) but in all my years of travelling, I can think of only two missed flights:  the infamous Bangkok bollocks, when I (and Dai, who had flown off somewhere else but was equally culpable) got things so wrong that I was 24 hours late.  Oops.  The flight was just after midnight and we got the time right but not the day!

How could two experienced travellers have got something so basic so wrong?   We decided that it was because we hardly ever travelled at that time.  Simples.  (And very, very stupid.  Mind you, I was heartened when I saw that I was not alone in the please-help-us-eejits-get-to-where-we-want-t0-go queue; it wasn’t short and it wasn’t just oldies, which was a real relief.)

The other time was when Dai and I were going somewhere, Frankfurt I think and the flight was delayed.  We were in the BA lounge and heard nothing, then found out belatedly that the delayed flight had been re-re-scheduled, brought forward and we were left mouthing imprecations at the poor pilot as he eased away from the stand.  Dai was incandescent and it took a lot of deep breathing and persuasion to get ourselves on a plane that took us near enough to where we wanted to be, when we had to be there.

Twice in a quarter of a century or so, not so bad.  And I’m pretty sure I only missed one deadline in 20 or so years of reporting/writing (there were of course extenuating circumstances; whatever they were, they’re lost in the mists of memory).

So why did I miss my flight on Tuesday?  Well, the short answer is that I didn’t leave home early enough.  If I’d left earlier, plumping for a route that included a crucial road that turned out to be closed wouldn’t have mattered because there’d have been time to double/triple/quadruple back and still get held up at security.

How to count the ways?  Having to take off the furry boots (heading north); then another rookie error (very much out of training, especially with hand luggage only) of not putting the rolled up, nearly empty toothpaste tube in the plastic bag; and, worst of all, having my breakfast confiscated.  “It’s liquid,” they said.  “But it’s solidified,” I said (chia seeds soaked overnight in kefir).  Security weren’t impressed.  Not solidified enough apparently.  My goose wasn’t so much grounded as cooked.

If you miss your flight, you then have to hang around and wait to be escorted off the premises – you’ve gone through security , remember – but there were no handcuffs.  There were three of us, the other couple had missed their flight to Belfast.  They were going for the Christmas shopping.  Blimey.  “Is Belfast good for shopping?” I asked, not really knowing, being well out of the loop.  “I don’t really know,” the wife said, “we’ve never been.”

I had a coffee and an almond croissant (no great shakes) before wending my weary way home.  So much for my new making-a-big-effort-to-be-early  regime.  Crashed at the first real test.  I’d been trying to follow the advice of Philippa Perry, wife of Grayson, in her latest publication, “The Book You Want Everyone You Love* To Read. (*and maybe a few you don’t.)  In the section on how to change old habits, she tackles the subject of habitual lateness, right up (or down?) my rabbit hole.

Terrible timekeepers can change, she says.  “We don’t just reach adulthood and stop developing.  The brain is plastic, we can therefore change it.  We change it by noticing what we normally do, inhibiting our normal reaction and working to form an alternative response, and thus developing a new habit.”

Ah well, the only thing for it is to persevere  – even Philippa isn’t perfect, not that she would claim to be I suspect.  I bought the last two signed copies of her book in Foyles at New Street station (spoiler alert:  potential Christmas presents) and discovered on closer inspection that even she has her limits.  See if you can spot the difference.

There was nothing for it but to take myself off to singing, better than moping about at home berating myself.  Helen, our teacher, a trained soprano with perfect pitch, is so kind and encouraging, even with a toneless numpty like me.  She hoped choir would make my day better and when I said it undoubtedly would if I were a better singer but I’d enjoy the company, she couldn’t have been more sympathetic.  “Our choir is never ALL about the singing Patricia…it’s the laughter, the chat and friendship that really matter.”

That’s why I keep going. It’s a joy.

 

 

 

 

 

I woke up screaming the other morning – not in fear and not very loudly but so frustrated that I knew there was no getting back to sleep.  It was early enough to hear the binboys doing their stuff but there was nothing for it but to get up, make a cup of tea and read something soothing.

I had a choice and plumped for Queenie Hennessy, more than emotional enough but a work of fiction and I wasn’t feeling quite strong enough for the mind-boggling real-life adventures of Billy Walters, a gambler’s tale that is not for the faint-hearted; large lumps of it aren’t for the mathematically challenged either but this reader, clueless as she is, is ploughing on regardless.  Both books are cracking reads.

Queenie did the job and took me into another world, calming me down.  The night before, channel hopping, I’d come across The Great Climate Fight on Channel 4 (well 4 +1), presented by the formidable trio of Mary Portas, Kevin McCloud and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.  They, like me, are spitting mad at our refusal to do every last thing we can to change our planet-destroying habits, wilfully ignoring all the advances in technology that make improvements possible – and have done for many years now.

Our housing stock is a disgrace – Kevin is the man for this – but it doesn’t have to be and it was the vision of all the same old, same old new builds being thrown up all around Lichfield that caused my early-morning meltdown.  If I hadn’t been feeling a bit delicate after a visit to the osteopath, I’d have tramped over to the development and taken a photo but you’ll probably get the picture anyway.

Kevin visited a lovely, energy efficient batch of new homes in Lancaster, to show what can be done and Mary got herself a red coach and a driver and parked it outside the Treasury.  She took up her little megaphone to try and tempt Jeremy Hunt, the chancellor, who’d been ignoring her emails, to meet her to discuss the matter of fossil fuels and the like.  He didn’t appear but she caused a stir.

Government ministers did their level best to avoid our intrepid trio, though Michael Gove did agree to visit Lancaster with Kevin, then, what do you know, he couldn’t find a slot in his diary…Obfuscation at every turn, stringing us along, hoping we’ll soon be too cold to use our keyboards and will be too busy surviving to think about thriving.  You wouldn’t believe these people have children and grandchildren and should be doing everything they can to save the planet for them.

Well, there’ll be an election soon enough…In the meantime, just what should I be replacing the gas boiler with?  And did I really grow up without radiators?  Where has that hardiness gone just when it’s needed!

Talking of string, that was the comp for us frolickers last Friday.  We each got given a piece of string, how long depended on our handicap, the higher the longer, so you can imagine the tangled mess some of us got into.  The idea is to use your string to get out of trouble, a bunker, say or a clump of heather or to hole a tricky putt.  You cut off the length as required until you run out of string.

For once I managed the intricacies well-nigh impeccably, putted the lights out and racked up 18 points in the 7 holes, with five proper pars, two of them string-assisted and two bogeys.  It’s a bit of a faff, not least because it takes two to stretch out the string and work out where to cut it – there were lots of cries of “who’s got the scissors?”  Then you have to remember which string is still in play and which is out of action.  A bit of a miracle we made it in in daylight; no wonder the two-ball behind us took themselves off who knows where.

The whole point is that the string is your get-out-of-jail free card but for some unfathomable reason and to general astonishment our esteemed organiser, who sets the rules, and her group added a shot to their score every time they used a bit of cord.  Duh.  At least she had the grace not to declare the comp null and void.

That evening, when I was slobbing out at home in front of Father Brown and Gogglebox, a load of the more intrepid members were back out on the course for a few holes of floodlit golf.  They all raved about it so much – despite a certain amount of disorientation (hip flasks were spotted apparently) – that I’m putting my name down next time; it sounded like a lot of fun.

I forget to tell you that the other week at bridge I called, with a lot of help from our resident guru, a grand slam, shock, horror.  I didn’t make it – but I should have.  It all came down to the last two cards and muggins (whose brain cell failed her at the critical moment) nearly made the right choice but prevaricated (knowing that the others at the table knew what I should be doing) and as so often got her 50-50 chance wrong.  I chose the six of diamonds and the six of hearts was a master.  Bugger.  That could be my one and only chance.

Billy Walters would be shaking his head in disbelief.  You’re kidding me.  You weren’t playing for money?  And you can’t count!

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been a shitty few days in many ways and sitting here staring at a blank screen feeling sad and doing a lot of old woman huffing and puffing is no help to anybody.  Perhaps I should just shut the laptop lid and go to bed but it’s not December yet and sheer stubborness demands that there’s a blog for our devoted, daft friends to read on Friday morning – or whenever they wish.  Mo and I are amazed (well, I am) – and beyond grateful.

Puttering about, doing this and that but nothing very much in particular, I switched on the telly and flicked or scrolled or whatever it is we low techies (i.e. non techies) do to get to the golf.  And, lo, there were the seniors, still swinging, still competing, in the Charles Schwab Cup Championship, somewhere in America:  Bernhard Langer, Steve Alker, Padraig Harrington, Ernie Els, mostly names and players I once knew well.

I watched with half an eye because one of my current projects is to read and return all the books I’ve borrowed from friends and I was keen to finish The Tale of the Rose by Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry, wife of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, one of France’s all-time heroes.  It was translated into English by Esther Allen and subtitled The Passion That Inspired The Little Prince (Le Petit Prince).

Anyway, back to the golf and the highlights thereof.  Surely something was missing?  I put down the Saint-Exupérys, large print version but a mind-boggling, eye-opening rollercoaster of a ride to us innocents abroad even in tiny print and paid more attention to the screen.  Ah, that’s it.  They’ve given up golf and only do putting.  I think I saw one neat little chip, one pitch and then it was putt after putt after putt.  Not a drive, not a fairway shot, not a bunker shot – although the commentators mentioned a couple of excellent efforts from sand by Padraig.  At the 72nd hole we saw Alker hit a poor wedge over the green, then a decent little chip and he then holed a tricky little putt to win.

Blimey, that little lot was right up there with the worst highlights package I’ve ever seen and that’s saying something.  I was aghast, incensed even and in a funny way, it cheered me up no end.  And, in the general scheme of things it mattered/matters not a jot.

Seeing Padraig also jolted me into scurrying upstairs to find this silly tile, a souvenir from the Open he won at Carnoustie.  It’s as yet unsigned but even though it was way back in 2007 I doubt he’s forgotten it, his first major championship and I’m sure he’s signed weirder things in his time.

Being a bit – ok a lot – of a weather wimp these days, I withdrew from the golf on Tuesday when I woke up to hear the rain hammering against the bedroom window.  It did ease off and one of my partners, who’s keen to test out her dodgy knee, played a few holes without needing her brolly.  I’d laid out my thermals – vest and leggings – waterproof trousers and various upper layers, plus hat and gloves but Sue C appeared in her SHORTS.  And as far as I know she hasn’t even signed up as a Christmas postie.

There’s no getting away from it:  it’s tough when friends die, especially when they’re your age or younger and last week we had to say goodbye to Dale Reid and Alison White, both Scots, both steeped in golf, both only in their sixties.  Outwardly they were very different characters but both left their mark on the game, Dale as a player, very much in the public eye and Alison as an administrator, working away behind the scenes.

So many memories, so many laughs, some irritations, so much kindness; those are the things that come to my mind when I think of them.  I’m meant to have a way with words but what are the right ones at moments like this?  They’re in there somewhere but stuck.  They’ll have to wait for another time.

In the meantime, my heart goes out to their families and friends.

And I’ve a couple of pictures to share.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please, please tell us the secret Hank, Mr Haney, sir.  Spare us years of digging in the dirt and hitting shanks and sclaffs* and make half-decent golf easy-peasy instead of an impossible dream.  This plea comes from the heart but even so I hadn’t the stamina to make it to the end of the promo; lacked the devotion to press ahead and commit to what it took; I guess I just have to admit that I don’t have what it takes; no stickability.

For goodness sake, what on earth is she wittering/whittering on about now?  Is there much more of this?  As an increasingly bored and disinterested copytaker really did say to me once – only once??! – as I was struggling to string a coherent piece together under the strains of a looming deadline and very little info of any interest whatsoever.

In the days before computers and t’internet, you used to have to file your story by picking up the phone, often reversing the charges (younger readers can give up now) and dictating your well-chosen words to a copytaker, a professional typer-up of stories good, bad and indifferent.  If you were lucky, you’d get a chirpy soul like the man who coped with Danielle Ammaccapane – enunciated carefully letter by letter – by saying, “Ah, normal spelling…”  I still love that man, whoever he was.  As for the sour woman who could do no better than the dreaded classic, “Is there much more of this?”….Well, I now feel much sorrier for her than for me.

Dai used to talk fondly – well, irascibly if truth be told – of Deaf Jim, one of the Birmingham Post’s stalwarts, who was a bit hard of hearing and used to panic when he realised that his correspondent was ringing from America.  It wasn’t as though Jim had to pay the phone bill but he took it very personally and of course, his hearing got worse.  You can imagine what that did for Dai’s, shall we say, demeanour when he was at the Masters, say, right up to deadline.

Ah, deadlines.  What a joy to have a proper cut-off time, beyond which you could do nothing more.  It’s all 24/7 now, non-stop around the clock.  Rest is a four-letter word.  No wonder AI is the in/coming thing – no need for food, sleep or reflection if there’s no human involved.

Now, where was I?  Ah yes, Hank.  I was scrolling down my emails the other day, not making much progress because I kept reading and clicking on stuff that might be interesting when I came across Hank’s 1-SHOT SLICE FIX, under the auspices of performancegolf.com but also as featured in, apparently, Sports Illustrated, The New York Times, ESPN, Golf Digest and GOLF.

Hank is a big cheese in the world of coaching – legendary even – and his credentials are beyond question.  He coached Tiger Woods for many successful years until they had a big falling out and those who can afford it travel many miles and pay big bucks to have lessons with Hank.  He knows what he’s talking about.  I like to think of my stock shot, a left to right thing sometimes known as a slice (I play golf right-handed) as a wee fade, possibly a cut but who wouldn’t be intrigued by the blurb that promised nirvana:  a quick, permanent fix.

Here are some quotes:  It Takes No More Than 5 Minutes Of Practice Swings…and Then ONE SINGLE SHOT On the Range…(It looks prettier and more compelling in the original layout)….to eliminate decades of horrible slicing habits and start crushing ultra-controlled drives down the fairway…Shot after shot…consistently….

Who wouldn’t be intrigued but I started to lose the will to live, let alone improve as Hank went on and on about how good he was/is (I know, Hank, I know), how many thousands of people he’d taught over the years and then all these happy people, all men, mostly middle-aged at best, who’d spent years spraying their balls to the right (I didn’t last long enough to see if there were any lefties included) and now couldn’t slice if their lives or the lives of their loved ones depended on it.

Come on Hank, there’s no singing this week (half-term) so I’m not in a rush but please get on with it, you’ve made your point, cut to the chase, how much?  What do I have to pay for this nugget?

You’d have been proud of me – or thought I was bonkers – because I made it to the nitty-gritty.  The price was $47, a snip but there was some sort of caveat that involved signing up to Performance Golf – cancel at any time, that sort of schtick.  That’s when I gave up.

Trouble was, I thought I’d gleaned enough to try it out on the golf course and since this week’s comp was a Texas Scramble, what better test event?  Apologies partners.  Not surprisingly I didn’t get it quite right but I did hit a few drives well left – not my usual miss – and couldn’t be sure that my trusty fade would pop up whenever I needed it.  We weren’t last but weren’t that far off the bottom.  Perhaps I should have paid up.  Perhaps I should have hit a few balls on the practice ground.  Perhaps I should just have stayed in bed…

Ah well, there’s always next week.

*a stroke in which the sole of the club scrapes the ground before striking the ball; any horribly mishit shot.