The Old Year, with its joys and sorrows carved in the pages of history, crept quietly away. The New Year, full of hope and expectation, whizzed in on a cacophony of fireworks, fizzy champagne and earnest resolutions. But resolutions are fickle and seldom last much longer than the firework displays of New Year’s Eve. The thespian summed it up.
“The bar at Uni is full of people on the way to the library”.
Prophetic words, as it turned out.
The list of resolutions was stuck on the fridge.
“Good to see you have got your priorities right“, said the Golf Police, nursing his New Year’s hangover.
Resolution – Golf – Practice. Practice. Practice.
Resolution – Read more. Travel more. Find the Northern Lights
Resolution – De-clutter house
Resolution – Lose weight
The fridge had been detoxed. A note, penned in red, warned night time fridge raiders.
THIS IS A HEALTHY ZONE
VEGETABLES AND FRUIT ARE THE FUTURE
FIVE A DAY IS THE NEW MANTRA
HUNGER IS A MIND SET
The star of the show took centre stage on the work top. Big and bold. Bright and brash. The new juicer. A family gift from Father Christmas. The family would zing with vitamins B1 to B6. We were destined to be mineral rich, full of anti oxidants and enzymes. Trimmer. Fitter. Faster.
It had not been plain sailing.
“Why can’t I have toast and marmalade/cake/chocolate coated brazil nuts?” muttered the Golf Police.
“Cold turkey” said City Girl. “Deal with it”.
“It will change your whole life” said the thespian.
“And your shape” I whispered.
“I am sure I have lost weight already” said The Golf Police, breathing in and raiding the cupboards for a sugar fix. “And I am sick of all that healthy rabbit food. Can’t we re-home the juicer?”
Afterwards, everyone recalled the comment.
De-cluttering was a work in progress.
Each room had been designated a number with an action plan. Minimalist was the future.
The garage gleamed with self righteousness. Golf bags hung from the rafters and the tumble drier and freezer were cobweb and clutter- free. Golf balls were gradually being returned to the range. The remaining balls were graded and put in assorted containers. Clean clubs stowed in sets, head covers repaired, golf towels washed and colour coded. Waterproofs folded, shoes cleaned and re-spiked.
There just remained the rest of the house.
“Half those golf books can go to the charity shop” said the Golf Police, eyeing the crowded bookcase.
“And do you need 22 cookery books?”
The next morning the charity shop received 21 books and the Juicer was hard at work. Liquid rocket fuel.
“You should try it” said City Girl. “It will energize you”.
“Thanks, but no thanks” said the Golf Police, tucking into his generous portion of porridge, smothered with honey, bananas and blueberries.
“Probably away for the next two nights”.
I waved him off as he pulled off the drive with his blackberry and briefcase, then I made the call.
“Best you come into the shop” said the voice on the phone.
He was helpful. To a point.
“Don’t know much about golf” he said.
I drew a diagram and gave him a quick demonstration of the golf swing. More upright than flat. I slowed down the follow through and held the finish.
“Neat” he said. “Neat”. I knew it had been lost in translation. He was more at home with first touch, possession and strikers who found the back of the net.
I left the diagram and ran through the swing once again.
“Only ring my mobile”.
Far away the Golf Police booked into a hotel with its six pillowed bed and minimalistic chic. The red headed receptionist greeted him like a long lost cousin. Waiters served full English breakfasts and in the evening, steak with sauted potatoes and a full bodied red. The napkins were crisp, the cutlery heavy and wine glasses gleamed.
“So how is your thespian?” asked the red head on reception.
He was getting the hang of Shakespeare. Could remember Lady Capulet appeared in Romeo and Mark Anthony strode the stage with Cassius and Brutus. He could even quote one of the lines from the play.
“Et tu Brutus”.
“The thespian is fine” he said. “Busy rehearsing Caesar and the stabbing in the back scenes”.
She looked at her screen, next rota day and blocks of reservations and sighed. She imagined a world beyond spread sheets, credit cards and cancellations. She pictured the togue’d silver tongued oratory of Mark Anthony, the disbelief of dying Caesar and the gruesome gore of Ancient Rome.
“Sounds divine” she said “Simply divine. Paper with your breakfast, Sir?”
At home, the phone rang.
“It’s ready for collection” said the man the other end of the phone. The coast was clear and it was delivered before the health boosting apple, spinach and watercress juice was ready for supper time.
“What’s going on here then? Some outpost for golf stuff” he said, peering around the garage.
“Hit the light switch, love. And any chance of a cuppa?”
“Would you prefer a nice healthy Juice?”
“Not likely” he said. “Tea. Strong. Four sugars, please love”.
“So where do you want this?”. He rummaged in his tool box and got on with the job. When it was finished, he picked up his tool box and shut the garage door.
The Golf Police returned from his trip and threw his brief case down. He decided against jumping on the scales.
“Everything ok?” he said.
I thought about the man and the phone call. How the plan was executed whilst the unsuspecting Golf Police chatted to the thespian wanna- be-redheaded- receptionist.
I thought about the space between the gardening and golf section in the de-cluttered garage, which was now filled with a custom made mirror. A mirror for a golf swing. Stance, posture and take away. Reflections and resolutions. The year had started well.
The car fitted in, with ten centimetres to spare. Tight. Snug. No margin for error.
“It’s been quiet here” I said.
“What’s for supper?”
“Nice Brazilian super food smoothie. Lots of orange and pineapple, blended with tangerines. And lentil soup followed by fruit salad. Have got some really tasty ones planned for the week. Full of zingy vitamins and anti oxidents”.
The Golf Police went to bed that night and dreamed of the red headed receptionist, medium to rare steaks and strawberry pavlovas.
Next morning the juicer broke. No one knew how it happened. There were no witnesses.
“Can’t believe it” said City Girl.
The Golf Police was strangely silent. He tucked into his scrambled egg on toast. Followed by toast and marmalade.