The Take Away

woody2It was time to put the ball back on the tee. Time to find the swing and check the swing  plane.  Not quite the fairways but the first step back to the Swindle and a round of golf.

Watching the Golf Police wield the scissors and hair brush, I knew it was time to find the other man in my life.  I made the call and booked a date in the diary. A mid week lesson to find the swing and re-learn how to grip the club. Time to show the Pro the new club in the bag.  But as it turned out, he was less than impressed. Great club. For someone else.

It had been a week of mixed fortunes.  Despite train strikes and 40 mile tail backs, the fans made it to the mecca of rugby in Wales. With the roof closed and the Welsh anthem reverberating round the ground, the White Shirts got the tries, the points and the win. The Six Nations was off to a good start and the oval ball was heading to Twickenham for a show down against Italy.

The thespian was heading home and the washing machine would be on overdrive.  The bathroom draped in towels, the juicer on overtime.

I loaded the fridge with celery, carrots and cabbage. Apples, pears and kiwi.  Spinach, broccoli and beetroot.  The thespian sent a text.

Last Caesar tonight.  Don’t forget to buy some lemons and ginger xx ps Can you fix the radiator in my room xx

The girl on the till in the supermarket put the last courgette through and totalled up the bill.  It was not cheap being healthy.

“So who eats all this stuff?” she asked.

“Not the Golf Police “ I said and lugged the bags back into the trolley.

And on a day when the swindle were wrapped against the wind and the cold, I went to find the other man in my life.

The lesson was good.

“Any chance you can use a video which makes people look slim?”

“Let’s just concentrate on the take away” he said and smiled.

The chunky person on the video had a way to go and the fault in the take away did not lie on camera.  Nor did the Pro.

“Well, a bit of work to do there” he said. “Now show me the new club”.

I showed him the club and hit a ball.

“May I?” he said.

He hit two balls.  They disappeared into orbit.

“You’ve got the wrong club” he said.  I knew I could not hit balls like him with the right club.

After all the balls were hit, I left the car park and turned right instead of left.

It was late by the time I reached home.

It was back to burnt suppers.  Macaroni cheese left too long under the grill.  Served with garden peas and a pat of butter. I remembered the video and cut down on the portions.

“Any chance you could look at the radiator?” I said to the Golf Police after supper.

“I looked at it at the beginning of the week”.

I remembered the look.  I remembered the scissors and the hair brush.  Hitting it with the brush and trying to loosen the radiator cap with the scissors. The south paw scissors.  It had not been a success. It reminded me of the motorway and the debris in the fast lane.  The Golf Police and the Salad Dodgers in uniform, trying to budge the wheel nuts.  With the branch of a tree.  Same outcome. Failure.

“I’ll get your tool box” I said.

It was joint effort.  The Golf Police watched and the DIY Guru next door was a phone call away. Pliers. WD40 and knowledge. The radiator was red hot and the room warm.

When the Golf Police was playing with the remote, I smuggled the new club into the house. Into the bag by the Book case.  Next to Harvey Penick, Hogan, Shakespeare and Shackleton.  And the club waited.  Waited for the fairways, the swindle and the pot.