Still Lagging Behind

People who sneer at golf and say it isn’t a sport, isn’t even much of an exercise, are just plain wrong.  It might not be fast – in fact, these days it’s far too slow, with players forgetting (or never knowing) that it’s a moving game, that you can make decisions on the hoof, assessing the situation as you approach the ball and not wearing yourself out with endless practice swings.  And if you’re a recreational golfer, you can talk as you walk.

Even the most decrepit of four balls could cut at least 15 minutes off a round without too much of an effort – providing they avoid the bunkers, of course; ours at WHGC are taxing enough if you have two good knees, two hips in full working order, a back in tip-top condition and great glutes; perhaps you are that person but I can’t name even one.

A lot of bunker to rake, especially if you don’t get out first time. Takes a long time and it’s only the 1st hole…

I played my first 18 holes of the year last week and ran out of steam before the end – unluckily for my foursomes partner.  Yes, even playing just every other shot wore me out.  We were being given quite a few shots – 15 I think – and at least we made our younger, fitter, better opponents work hard and pay attention; they won 4 and 2.  We played the last two holes in desultory fashion, so that counts as a full round in my book.

Then, this week, on Tuesday, it was the four ball better ball over 18 holes – “got to get fit for the season” our brilliant, patient handicap/competitions guru said, over the cries of anguish of those of us grown used to 13 holes or fewer.  It was a decent day – no rain and quite a lot of sun – and at the beginning some of the golf was decent but as fatigue and lack of ability crept in, the swing deteriorated and the scores soared.

Early on the thought crossed my mind that at least we (well, I) wouldn’t be last this time out and it turned out I was right – we were last but one.  Does this mean I’ve found my level at last?  At least my step count is up there with my shot count…

Perhaps it’s the same for Spurs.  After all footballers do a lot of running and quite a bit of shooting.  I nipped (!) down/up to N17 for the Wednesday league game against the once mighty Manchester City and we lost 1-nil, though we did give it a good go in the second half and were probably a tad unlucky not to score.

Still nil-nil but only 32 seconds in…

Admittedly, the phenom that is Erling Haaland (big, blond Norwegian who wears swanky, mega-expensive silk pyjamas in his spare time) scored his second goal in the last minute to make it 2-nil but the referee (aided and abetted by the dreaded VAR – video assistant referee) decided that it was handball and disallowed the score.  The general consensus was that if anything it was a Spurs player, perhaps two, who’d handled the ball.  Wonder how City would have reacted if we’d scored with the next move, the last one of the game, instead of heading over the bar?!

On the route march to Tottenham Hale tube station, via the back doubles used by a fair number of fans to avoid the crush on Tottenham High Road, it was fun listening to people’s opinions of the game.  The first opinions overheard reckoned that Ange should stay and we weren’t that far off being rather good; the second lot thought the complete opposite:  Ange should go immediately and the team were devoid of ideas and pretty clueless; also it was a gross error to leave our best players on the bench until the second half.  Every fan’s a successful manager and I really enjoyed the walk.

At least the game kicked off at 1930, so I was able to make it to Euston in time for the 2230 back to Birmingham International.  It took two hours but the train down/up had taken just over an hour.  Admittedly, it stopped at only one station, Coventry.  On the way home, we stopped at four stations before International.  Still, in bed well before 0200 on a football night is a result.

I’d sold my spare season ticket on ticket exchange, so I asked the person next to me how much they’d paid for the seat.  She and her partner, who’d bought the ticket, are from Dublin and he, a Spurs fan, in London on business, had forked out £95, more than a little reluctantly, given the eye-watering sum.  I received £44.50 because it’s classified as a Category A fixture.  Some are B and some are C, which I think is a bit snotty/snobby because all the teams are in the Premier League but they’re not all treated the same.

The pliers have done their work but the real problems started when I failed to realise that I shouldn’t be using water until I’d reconnected everything…

This being Thursday and blog night, I had to find something to distract me from the task in hand, so I put on a couple of episodes of the new series of Sort Your Life Out and spotted a cleaning hack that I decided to try.  It involved fiddling with the kitchen sink plug to access gunk/gunge undisturbed for goodness knows how many years.  What was I thinking?  On the telly, it was a simple screw; in my sink it was a nut that required a lot of sustained work with a pair of pliers…

There’s always a knock on effect but fortunately most of the water ended up in one of the plastic containers under the sink. Not a drama, just a lesson learned and blog delayed.

And, of course, taking something apart is a lot easier than putting it back together – unless you know what you’re doing, which I don’t.  There was quite a lot of unwanted water sloshing about but it wasn’t a disaster, darling, just a warning to the handless to avoid do-it-yourself of any sort.

Sometimes the wise thing is not to push the boundaries but to accept your limitations.

Sniffing is serious business and Alice is an expert – she uses her whole body, everything shakes from ears to tail.