They say it’s a good idea to start at the beginning, so perhaps that’s the best thing to do. The problem is that I’ve pressed a button or two and am now writing this piece in an unfamiliar format and have no idea if it’ll turn out all right or not. In the general scheme of things and given the state of the world, it matters not a jot but it’s become a source of pride (prepare for the fall) to get the damned thing out on time, more or less, every week. Is it a chore? Not really, more a joy but there are times when it’s more complicated than it should be and this looks like being one of those occasions – especially since my technical adviser has gone to bed and I’m hunting and pecking on my iPad having forgotten to pack the keyboard.
It seems I’m starting at the end after all but perhaps I have half an excuse because on Monday I gave blood for the 69th time. Nothing much to boast about really but not a bad effort either. My (modest) ambition was to match my age and all being well I should squeeze in two more sessions before my 72nd birthday next summer but now I’m desperate to get to 75 donations. Then you get some sort of token – emerald I think – to mark the achievement.
I go in to Birmingham to donate and there were two treats in store: a new (to me) train route in because our line is closed for works of some sort – we passed through places I’d never heard of – and The CBSO (City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra) playing in the middle of New Street Station at lunchtime. What a joy. Just the boost a blood-depleted bod needed.
A great view of the band, aka the CBSO, in full flow, with Ozzy the Bull, star of the Commonwealth Games, watching on. He was named for Ozzy Osbourne, of Black Sabbath fame, who died recently and the orchestra paid/played tribute to him, a local lad gone global.
Birmingham City Council, which is properly (or improperly) bankrupt, decided to cut the CBSO’s funding and I suggested to one of the staff that they should consider changing their name. The very sensible reply was: “We’re the City’s orchestra, not the City Council’s and we have a name that’s known worldwide.” And so they do. Renowned, in fact. They also want their home city to embrace them and bring the joy of music to all and sundry.
A great deal – providing you could book online. Admittedly, it was so straightforward that even I managed it!
Sometimes golf makes the heart sing and sometimes it makes the temper tantrum – perhaps simultaneously. At a very benign Whittington Heath on Monday, in the PGA Midland Open Series, James Freeman from Rotherham GC had the round of his life – a 59 that featured 12 birdies (seven of them in a row) and no bogeys. It didn’t count as a course record because, for whatever reason, at the height of summer, there were preferred lies. Even more galling, it was a 36-hole event and James eventually finished second, three shots behind Irishman Niall Kearney, who surged to the top with a second round of 60.
James Freeman’s day of days. [PGA]
I didn’t have any birdies when I played the course on Wednesday and there was no sign of a 59 at a (mostly) bright and breezy Royal Porthcawl on the first day of the AIG Women’s Open, the final major championship of the season. There was some excellent golf but Mo and I saw not a single sign advertising the event on our way to the course. Yes, there were signs directing you to the car parks – green, blue, whatever – but they were only meaningful and useful to those of us who knew there was something going on. Perhaps all the advertising is being done online – by AI bots. Or is it botts?
The classic clubhouse, newly painted and to the right, in blue and white, the beach hut, where the lady members used to change for their dip. The players are on the 1st green (usually the 18th).
We watched quite a bit of Lottie Woad, the woman of the moment but mostly we fell in to chat as we bumped in to friends from far and wide. Most memorably, the inimitable Kirsty Taylor (née Speak, a Lancashire lass long based in Minchinhampton, introduced us to Corinne Durber, a single figure golfer and a former Gloucestershire county captain now renowned as the router of gambling giants Paddy Power.
Shamefully, this story of the Golfing Gardener from Gloucestershire (think Gambling also fits in to the alliteration somewhere) had passed us by but it transpires that Corinne, playing some sort of online game, won the jackpot – a mere million quid or thereabouts – only to be fobbed off with a measly £20,000 by PP. They claimed some sort of technical hitch – a problem with the software/hardware/wiring/satellite biorhythms/whatever – but reckoned without Corinne’s tenacity. She took them to court and earlier this year, after five years and a lot of angst, the judge found in her favour. Hurrah.
(For full, technically and judicially correct details, please do further research elsewhere. This is the bare bones, gleaned on the golf course while trying not to disturb Woad and co with gasps and half-stifled shrieks.)
Kirsty (left), Corinne and a gobsmacked Mo.
More sedately, it was wonderful to see Bridget Jackson, that great and enduring woman of golf, who played in the Curtis Cup at Porthcawl back in 1964. The Americans won, though not by much and Bridget was not disgraced.
Bridget, as interested and full of life as ever.
NB Please note that I have waited until the very end to mention this score, from Hong Kong: Arsenal 0 Tottenham Hotspur 1.
Hi Patricia. Was just starting to forget Waiting until after the end would have been even better . Does it even count if it’s in HK?
Of course it counts, Lisa but it doesn’t matter!!