Only One Madill In A Muddle

Well, the attempt at dressing up wasn’t necessary and the dearth of black lipstick and a witch’s point to the black hat didn’t matter at all because there wasn’t a single, solitary knock on the door on Halloween, All Hallows’ Eve.  Not a single, solitary trick or treater brightened my door and practising my haka/gurning was all for nothing – confirmed as I struggled to take the selfie and saw with horror that the double and triple chins were massing, no messing….Aaagh.

I rushed to find my copy of Wake Up to Yoga by Lyn Marshall and turned to pages 52 and 53 for instructions on The Lion (roaring) and the Jaw Lift (self-explanatory) but it’s probably too late, too late, as one of our Sweaty friends used to say in an exaggerated Glaswegian accent, to the amusement of us all.  In-jokes always fall flat when you try to explain them [Sweaty Socks=Jocks=Scots=Sweaties, the sort of thing that’s probably not very politically correct but usually quite acceptable between good friends who specialise in insults and would be horrified if anyone took them too seriously.]

Lyn Marshall, who trained as a ballet dancer, was one of many telly fitness gurus, mostly women (remember the Green Goddess), who got us thinking about health and fitness and what was considered, in those far-off days, exotic – things like yoga.  She made it sound simple and achievable – if you couldn’t do the Lotus position, you didn’t have to, you just did what you could.  That’s why I kept the book.  Sadly, Lyn Marshal died of cancer, far too young.  But her spirit lives on.

The fact that I could lay hands on Wake Up To Yoga without scrabbling through umpty-ump boxes and mounds of paper was, surprisingly, entirely down to me.  For some reason, it was in my easily accessible basket, along with my singing (?!) file and a few other things (not including my passport).  It pre-dated Mo’s boot camp at the beginning of this week.  Honest.

A small sample from thirty or more years’ worth of boxes.  It’s hard to work through a life one piece of paper at a time.

It’s time to get my house and affairs in order and I accept that it’s a task that’s beyond me on my own – too much prevaricating, reading, havering, being distracted by gardening, dusting, golfing, shopping, eating, drinking, card dealing, blogging, chatting, almost anything.  Mo, being a professional, is much more disciplined.  She came over for a couple of days and ran a tough regime – Eddie Jones would have approved.  There was down time but no slacking.  No wonder I’m exhausted; the whole thing was emotionally draining as large lumps of my life were chucked into the recycling bin or the shredder and black bin bags.

There were birthday cards, anniversary cards, Valentine cards – Charles Schulz and Beryl Cook were family favourites – wedding cards, engagement cards, condolences cards and letters – thanks again to everyone for their kindness – newspaper cuttings, magazine cuttings, illegible scribblings on scraps of paper, scorecards from golf courses near and far – and we haven’t taken on the photos yet.

In my defence, Dai was probably even more of a squirrel than I am – and he had a 20-year start.  Mo and I did send more than 100 boxes to the archivists at the British Golf Museum in St Andrews but there’s still work to be done.  We’re helped by the fact that most of my notes are illegible – to Maureen certainly – and if decipherable, they’re no longer of interest, even to me……(I exaggerate but not by much……)

Being otherwise engaged, I had to miss out on a couple of AGW events on two of my favourite courses – Delamere Forest and Hoylake (Royal Liverpool).  Congratulations to Rob Perkins, who retained his AGW ETIQUS ‘Race to Hoylake’ Golfer of the Year title and to Derek Lawrenson (of the Daily Mail), who won the AGW Championship for the fourth time (equalling my record!)

Rob Perkins (left) and Derek Lawrenson with their trophies.

Derek, a lefty and a handy golfer – single figures in his heyday, not sure of his current handicap – is a Liverpool supporter who once won a Lamborghini for a hole-in-one.  He lived round the corner from us at the time and drove round so we could admire his prize before he sold it.  He was followed by a guy in a brand, spanking new 4-wheel drive, who’d seen the Lamborghini – it was a sort of aubergine colour – and turned round to follow it down our road.  He didn’t believe us when we told him how Derek had come by it….It’s a great story, which involves Paul Ince and Steve McManaman and you won’t have any difficulty looking it up.

Goodness knows what my golf will be like next time I venture out.  Most of the sorting was done standing up, which may not add anything to the step count but doesn’t count as slothful, so the ageing joints are creaking even more than usual.  Bit like Wales, who seem to be held together by Elastoplast and take on New Zealand in the bronze medal match at the Rugby World Cup in Japan today (Friday).  Then, on Saturday, it’s England v South Africa in the final.  Epic.

Finally, so much for my take on Tiger, who confirmed his amazingness by winning the Zozo in Japan and will probably have to pick himself for the Presidents Cup in Oz.  Will he then hand over the captaincy?

The trick or treaters missed a treat.