Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
home. Years ago, the garage was commandeered for his fruitless hobbies, with the car end-
ing up on the drive. But matters had recently reached crisis proportions as nuts, bolts and
apparently priceless bits of salvaged metal began to appear all over the house. Occasionally
I mentioned that it wouldn't be so bad if he actually
made
something, other than puddles of
oil and mounds of miscellaneous odds and sods. His response is unprintable.
He, on the other hand, considers my living-off-the-land vocation to be “a total and ut-
ter waste of bloody time.”
“For crying out loud just go and
buy
a cabbage. It costs sixpence and you don't get a
mouthful of weevils when you eat it.”
Since, as usual, he is missing the aspirational point about eating 'green', healthily and
cheaply, I generally ignore him. And anyway, on that particular occasion, they were grubs
not weevils. There's nothing wrong with a little added protein, even if it does come in sur-
prise packages.
So there we were, at a total impasse with the peripherals. On the other hand, we both
love golf. This is fine until we play together, which we used to have the misfortune of do-
ing pretty regularly. If we played as a 'team', Jack usually forgot this tiny detail. He would
'coach' me throughout the entire match, leaving any interpersonal skill which he allegedly
possesses back in the clubhouse. I frequently tried to fob him off onto my pals, because
he's an excellent player, but no, they weren't fooled. They believe the whole idea is to
en-
joy
a game of golf, not endure it, so I struggled on.
He was at his very worst when I attempted a putt. I have a strict routine which might
seem lengthy to some, but for me is essential. It developed as a result of trying to block
out 'the heckler'. This was Jack, hovering directly behind me, constantly giving directions
and being dangerously close to standing either on, or directly behind my line. The former is
very poor etiquette; the latter is not allowed. This twittering distraction would reach fever
pitch if I missed the hole, when I would be subjected to a fusillade of hissed comments:
“What a bloody whizzer”; “Oh my
God
that was a total
wide
”; “See? I
knew
you'd miss.
You just will
not
listen to advice, will you?”
During these outbursts I normally exercised the patience of Job and either ignored
or smiled benignly at him. But not always. Just occasionally I'd decide that enough was
enough and retaliate with an appropriately testy rejoinder. This would dismay poor Jack.
Deeply wounded, he'd retreat sulkily to his golf bag, muttering to his head-covers about
the horrors of marriage to a woman with a vicious temper. These occasional 'flare-ups' of
mine enabled us to enjoy a few quiet-ish rounds of golf, but never for long.
So that was golf. As for the dogs, Jack thought they were basically 'a drain of time
and money'.
Sam was an Australian Shepherd. I first came across the breed when I was playing
golf with a pal. In the distance I spotted this animal that seemed to be floating rather than
