It’s been said before, but I’ll say it. It’s a funny old game, golf. Why in the name of anything you might think of is any degree of consistency so hard to come by? One day you think you are making progress and striking the ball very nicely, thank you, but the next you stand there looking down at the ball with no idea what to do next. That’s how it has seemed this week. A couple of sessions on the range were distinctly encouraging, with the ball flying straight and true and nice and long. A quick back nine led me believe I had at least a tenuous claim to the title of golfer, as I kept big scores at bay and found the fairway and green pretty much at will.
But yesterday, when the Dad vs Tristan series resumed, it was beyond-a-handicap golf, at least for the front nine, with triple and quadruple bogeys coming thick and fast and no hint of my ever having played the game before. Then, as the homeward nine unfolded, I restored a degree of sanity and recorded four pars in the space of six holes, with two bogeys just to make sure I didn’t get ahead of myself. So what was all that about? Search me.