Fairyland Adapting To The Modern World

Walter Cannon hesitated. The enormous red cloaked woman striding towards him looked anything but friendly. He checked his phone. It definitely said Little Red Ridinghood.

The woman loomed over him, glaring. ‘Took your time.’

‘Miss Ridinghood?’

‘Who else? You think I’m some caped crusader? This is the enchanted forest not Gotham Woods or whatever.’ She looked past him. ‘You alone? No kit?’

‘I’m surveying the scene and will report…’

‘In all that’s magical, you don’t have time to faff about. Granny’s three-quarters swallowed. Don’t you have an axe?’

‘Sorry. No one said.’

The enormous vermillion female took his elbow and began marching him deeper into the trees. To Walter they seemed to be watching.

‘I really need to call in, say I’ve arrived.’

She stopped. ‘What the actual flip, are you? Haven’t you read the story? Little girl lost, goes to grandma’s as she’s being eaten and dupes stupid lupus?’

He eyed her up and down.

She glared, making his skin crawl. ‘My parent’s little joke. I grew, okay? It happens even in fairyland. Are you sure you don’t have an axe?’

‘No, I’m a crisis evaluation specialist and…’

‘I told the woman I needed a firefighter…’

Red’s expression morphed into something Walter tried not to describe, wven to himself. It wouldn’t help calms his conniptions.

‘So what do you do? Precisely.’

‘It’s usually a fire and…’

Her scoff carried real menace. ‘You deal wirh fires? How? Wrestle the flames? Box the shit out of the fuel? Or is it some sort of MMA where…’

‘I call for back.’ Trying to add a positive note, he went on. ‘We use a hose.’

‘Seriously? Hardly fair on the fire. Still I told the Lord Chamberlain that relying on the real world support would be a disaster. He made the woodcutter redundant so I get you. Are you sure you don’t have, at least, a hand axe?’

Walter held up a clipboard. ‘I take notes,’ he said firmly. ‘After I’ve done a risk assessment.’

‘That’s it? You’re not going to stop my nearest and dearest being eaten?’

He shrugged. ‘Beyond my paygrade.’ He indicated the small cottage ahead. ‘Shall we have a look? If I’m happy I call out the team. First though,’ Walter baulked as a bloody curdling roar exited the open door and rushed away, ‘I need to assess if all elf and safety requirements can be accomodated.’

Posted in miscellany | 6 Comments

The memory pool

A picture from a ways back had me thinking. Losing touch is one future I don’t wish for anyone. Maybe this short story will resonate.

sue v reflection

Happy place

Bastion Rogers lent over the little rock pool, catching his reflection. The words ‘Neolithic bidet’ popped into his head and he smiled. And stopped. He’d smiled. Now that was unexpected. He bent closer, peering at the shadow man, holding a pose in the glassy surface. His father would have loved the idea, his face wrinkling at the nonsense of it all. The nonsense of it all; his motto these days.

Bastion took a picture of himself and slipped his camera away as he cupped his hands and sipped the chilled liquid. Moments later he spat it out, the illusion of crystal clear spring water lost in a foul bitter mouthful of decay.

And Bastion cried, a single tear at first but then a torrent splashing into the mix, adding his own salty secretions to the puddle. It was that bloody birdbath, that’s what. His father pride and joy, chipped from an old lump of concrete and precariously balanced on the stump of the old silver birch. When things got bad, when memories of Bastion’s mother cramped his dad so much he twisted out of shape, they’d go and sit by the laurel and watch as the birds – the wrens and the tits and the sparrows and the finches – came and frolicked, uninhibited in their natural joyousness. Gradually the simplicity of it all would relax his father and untangle his tongue as he told of his beautiful wife and their life before cruel reality snatched her away.

Bastion wiped his nose and straightened, his father’s basso profundo coming to him on a careless wind: ‘Our happy place, our kid’ he’d say.

Bastion strode away, leaving a little of himself in that pool but taking away far more. He headed for the next horizon, at last seeing where he was going.

Posted in short story | 6 Comments

Upgraded

Two local treasures have seen a face lift which in these straightened times is rather delightful.

First up Crystal Palace Park has been a place of fading grandeur of late. Mostly just fading. But money, probably from the lottery has been sourced and the tired and often downright dangerous upper terracing has seen a uplift. The fact it is just walls and steps shouldn’t hide the fact that it is now a space for events whereas until recently it was a place to tread warily

In fact though this isn’t the best bit. They’ve restored the dinosaur models to their original Vivtorian glory. Sure some aren’t dinosaurs and a number are anatomically inaccurate but this was the Victorians’ best guess so they deserve some slack.

Now if they can find the money to refurb the athletics stadium and swimming pool as well… it is said to be ‘nearly there’… hmm.

The second delightful transformation is to the Greek orthodox section of West Norwood cemetery, another Victorian marvel. This is one of seven huge cemeteries created in the second half of the 19th century to house London’s rapidly growing dead population. No cremation back then. These cemeteries, privately run included non conformity sections, hence this part given over to the Greek Orthodox faith.

I suggest you simply enjoy the spectacle and if ever at a loose end in London, seek out your nearest Magnificent Seven cemetery. You won’t be disappointed. Though, reading the graves makes you fearful of taking a nap, given the numerous deceased who ‘went to sleep’ only to end up here.

Posted in Crystal Palace, Dulwich, London, miscellany | 7 Comments

Positive About Butterflies

This article (by me!) appeared in the latest environmental writers magazine

Taking the positives

My dad was a ‘bug hunter’, or entomologist as he liked to think of himself in his later years and when he wasn’t being self-deprecating. Much of my childhood, especially holidays was outdoors with a butterfly net chasing down one variety after another.  We – my brother, father and me – caught many a selection which dad would consider and, if worthy kill and set. It seems barbaric now but to two knobbly-kneed boys in the 1960s, it was epic.
Back then the varieties were many – we lived in the New Forest in the southern part of the UK and were spoilt with many different prey. Fritillaries were many: silver-washed, high brown, pearl bordered, Duke of Burgandy; white admirals and small coppers; skippers and blues; the annual influx of clouded yellows from France.



Did we think about loses, stressing the species? Not my brother and me and probably not dad, not then.
But we moved on, we still enjoyed trips out but as teenagers and later as the often absent university students we had less time.
And dad moved on. He began to breed more and more, restocking depleted species.



He was especially passionate about the glanville fritillary. This particular butterfly survived on the southern part of the Isle of Wight, in the undercliff facing France, not far from the Needles. Every year in June for several years we would catch the ferry and visit the breeding grounds. Even to one so insular as a preteen I could appreciate the erosion taking place. After a few years as the scrubby cliff top came closer to the road, dad speculated that the fritillary might soon lose its habitat. And he began collecting and breeding his own selection. Free from predators, the dreaded ichneumon flies especially, he had a remarkable success rate. And now he had two trips a year. One to collect and one, paying the extra fees for his car to deliver the emerged or soon to be emerged butterflies to breed again. He became adept at judging the best time to collect, based on spring weather. It was his passion.


It was a short step from there to breeding other varieties both butterflies but especially the magnificent hawkmoths he adored. The year he was gifted a death’s head hawkmoth caterpillar and brought it through to its emerging, to hear the famed squeak will forever be a family highlight. He was suffused with delight at that, almost as much as he was at the first pint after a long hot walk of his favoured Ringwood ale.
This year it is parched here in south London but we have had the best year for butterflies in a while. Dad, if he was still around would be saddened by the diminishing numbers but would always look to the upside. If he could.
I still have a moth trap, which I roll out every so often to see what’s about.


We still have five varieties of hawkmoth here in the fringes of the city: elephant, poplar, lime, bee and eyed. Long may that be the case. I think the old man would like that.

Posted in butterflies and moths, environment, family, miscellany | 15 Comments

London Buses, Dogs v Babies

No, this isn’t a post on the subject of our rickety yet effective and comprehensive public transport system. Or is it a homage to some egregious modern equivalent of hare coursing.

The joke: you wait for one London bus and then three arrive at the same time. Not that it’s funny and in this modern world of universal telephony, the bus companies attempt to even out such traffic-induced scheduling wrinkles by telling drivers to wait at a stop to let the one ahead create a gap. Which of course eases nothing: the first bus is still rammed with customers and the ones behind full of furious passengers who are made even later by a forced delay. I digress.

I visit quite a number of cafes, of which there are an exploding number in London, both national and international brands and the quirkier local one offs. Back BR, (before the refurb) I took Dog but his increasingly angular elbows prevent the preceding walks so I now visit alone. And I am still very attuned to a cafe’s attitude to admitting dogs.

The law hereabouts is clear. Nothing prevents any establishment admitting dogs. It doesn’t matter if it serves food, if the cooking and food prep is done front of house rather than in a kitchen. Whether dogs are allowed entry is entirely up to the owners.

I use a small local chain of bakery cafes a fair bit, mostly for their excellent sourdough. Each has a card in the window, prominently displayed, saying (and I paraphrase) ‘we love our furry canine companions and we would love to let them come in but we aren’t allowed by law…’

This, of course, is monstrously irritating to one as increasingly thin skinned as me on many levels but I would growl and grumble as I tied Dog up outside and made my purchase. Until one day when I pushed open the door to be confronted by buggies. A sea of them. A plethora. What is the collective noun for buggies? A logjam? My path was blocked by a mass of angular plastic and metal from which emanated the sounds of mewling infants (and some howling). Some local coven had decided to meet up – which was of course fine – and had sequestered each table. But little thought had been given to the parking arrangements. Why not leave them outside with my beloved pup?

My under the breath growling was a touch more intense as I queued to pay. Often I’d treat myself to a cappuccino to go. As I handed over my loaf and placed my ordered I felt something snap.

‘You do know, young man, that the sign in the window is egregiously offensive’

‘Hmm?’

‘It says no dogs because of the law.’

‘Uh huh?’

‘Which is plain wrong. It is, of course entirely within your rights to block access to dogs but do not try and make it sound like you want them inside when clearly you do not.’

The server met my gaze.

‘You happily allow yourself to be turned into a disorganised crèche but ban a well trained pooch,’ I vaguely waved at the group of carers laughing and enjoying themselves. ‘Well?’

Even though I’d not asked any question, I was determined to force some sort of response, some note of contrition.

He eyed me with the tired gaze of one whose shift started at six and couldn’t end soon enough. ‘Do you want chocolate with the cappuccino?’

As I left some older children were creating a happy mayhem, a couple needed comforting and the tables were a riot of cups, cake crumbs and crayons.

I didn’t stop grumbling for a mile.

And how do these two parts link? A short while ago my son and daughter in law announced they were having a baby. A first grandchild. Inside a month my daughter and son in law did the same. Two newcomers inside a month either side of Christmas. There been a lot an excited chatter, inevitably. And I can now see how I might have to revise my views on universal access to cafes. Not about dogs. These I want to have the same freedoms as me. No, it’s buggies and their impact on space. For it’s clear I may well be one of those failing to park the sodding things with all due care.

And my fears are compounded when my daughter takes great delight in sending me this.

A double buggy! What the actual f…..?

Posted in dog, life, miscellany | 33 Comments

Unpunsishing A Good Deed

From a while back I scratched out a short story using the above. I thought I’d refresh and relaunch it… hope you enjoy

It all began in a small wood near Chipping Granite just outside of Stratford. Sunday morning at ten when the Rev. Worple Le Posset was walking Jericho, his Puddle an unlikely combination of pug and poodle. ‘What’s that, boy?’ The dog spun in circles as the shards of rainbow colours scattered on the ground.

The Rev looked up as his theological training had taught him to do when seeking enlightenment and, for once, he received the gift of insight rather than the burden of neck pain. ‘Bloody heck.’ 

It took four stout yeopersons from the village to scale the twisted beech and retrieve what turned out to be the biggest diamond the world had seen. Weighing in at nearly fourteen pounds, the rock captured a nation’s imagination for, well, about thirteen hours before an even bigger rock was found in a dumpster between Fifth Avenue and Forty-Fifth Street by an unlikely combination of Millicent Plankton, an occasional cocktail waitress and amateur seismologist and Parsons Rantwimble, dog podiatrist and sumo wrestler. 

Parsons happened to be practicing a particularly unlikely manoeuvre for his upcoming bout, when Millicent stepped outside her apartment with a new tester she’d got off eBay; his fart and her sensitivity to unusual tremours caused her to seek refuge in the nearest structurally solid space – namely the dumpster. When Parsons went to apologise and help her out he found, not someone ready to pass judgement but a giggling mess. For Millicent had found the second diamond, this time twenty-one pounds of carboniferous beneficence. 

After that, more and increasingly sizeable rocks began to appear across the globe. News hounds sought out the latest discovery – nature’s lottery winners as the finders were being described – and scientists pondered how such extraordinary events could be occurring.

Meanwhile at Nineteen Olympus Drive, Valhalla, Pallas Athene was just finishing with her book group. ‘Electra, dear, do you think, next time you could leave practicing the snogging a bit. All that slurping makes it hard to hear what others are saying.’

‘I don’t see why, if bloody Oedipus can get his end away.’

‘I know. Atlas told me what he said last night.’

‘Was he in the Foothills?’

‘Apparently Zeus heard…’

‘I warned him it would get out.’

‘Anyway, next time we’ll do that book you mentioned by that new God. What did you say his name was, Phoebe?’

‘Jehosophat? Something like that. He’s asking for beta readers. Keen to see if we think there’s any chance of it finding an audience. He’s very keen.’

‘It’s Jehovah, darling. It’s not going to sell, you know. Thousands of pages and ends in fire and brimstone.’

‘Shush, Electra, I’ve told you about spoilers. But, really? Not a happy ending? How capricious.’

‘I know. So last eon.’

‘How’s Horace? Haven’t heard a peep. Such a credit, Pallas.’

‘Hmm, yes. He is a bit quiet. I think I’ll go and check. Look, off you shoot and I’ll see you next time. His Uncle Loki sent him a new toy. Something about showing compassion to your serfs.’

‘Now, that is modern. Doesn’t sound like the Loki I know. Did I tell you about that time we spent a week at Neptune’s place. There were these Sirens…’

‘Stop it, Electra. See you next week.’

Pallas shut the door and floated up to Horace’s room. He sat at his desk, pressing his hands together. On the tabletop sat a cauldron of something dark and, frankly, disgusting.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Oh hi, Mum. This is great. Look.’ Horace opened his hands to reveal an enormous translucent rock. ‘It’s a diamond. I’ve been researching and apparently on my Earth,’ he waved at the planet spinning in the corner of his room, ‘these are highly prized. So I’ve been dropping them here and there. Look,’ he pointed at a brown dusty area near the white icy bit, ‘that’s a desert. Hardly anyone there so I’ll pop the stone here and…’ he spun the earth a few times, winding on the days, keeping an eye on where he’d placed the gem. ‘There, see. See what’s happened.’

Pallas peered at the flabbergasted shepherd whose 4×4 had just careered off the road, as the driver spotted this enormous diamond. The shepherd scratched his head and pulled out his mobile. As Pallas watched, people appeared from all around and fighting began. Guns were pulled and a riot was clearly on the cards.

‘Horace, look at them. They’re fighting. Is that what you want? I know essentially you have to be capricious but that doesn’t mean causing such disruption.’

‘But Loki said I was being generous,’ Horace whined. ‘They like diamonds.’

‘Your uncle has a somewhat offbeat sense of humour. I’m sure they’ve enjoyed they’re moments of excitement but it’s time you stopped the world for a moment and collected the stones. They’ll wonder where they went, I know, but it’ll soon just be another myth.’ She shook her head. ‘They’ll probably start another religion.’ She felt in her apron pocket and pulled out a book. ‘In fact, why not put this thing somewhere. Someone might like it. Sort of test drive it.’

Horace sniffed at the tome. ‘What’s is it?’

‘Something called the Bible. There’s this itinerant god looking for an outlet. I don’t suppose he’ll get far but it might give him a bit of a leg up, get him a bit of practice. He’ll be a seven day wonder, I expect. At least that seems to be what chapter one is all about.’

‘Mum, the Earth’s my toy. Why do I have to share?’

‘Because I say so. Now, you go and collect those diamonds.’

‘They’ll miss them, Mum.’

‘Tsk, silly boy. Everyone knows diamonds aren’t forever.’

Posted in humour, miscellany, short story | 9 Comments

Modern Life, eh?

I imagine we all know the experience. We ring up some organisation, needing (or at least wanting) to speak to what we, these days assume is a human – it could be an AI bot it seems. We are put on hold, maybe with a voice telling us where we are in the queue – somewhere beyond Jupiter – and we are played music.  Yesterday, calling a broker that must have more money than sense to have titivated this waiting scenario, I was often a choice. Not between some aural hell from some Guns’n’Roses wannabes and yet another break up dirge set to some indescribably egregious piece of poppy tat, but between melodic jazz (isn’t that an oxymoron?) and ambient bird song.

You what, guv? Ambient bird song? Que?

I was so taken aback that I failed to choose and we defaulted to jazz. By now I wanted to know what ambient bird song might be, but my place in the queue had shifted so I was orbiting Mars and reluctant to give up my gains.

So I pondered. Thusly. I know what bird song is even if the toenail ripping squawking of our resident parakeets push the envelope of that definition to tearing. But what’s with the ambient bit?

Ambient means, dear reader – and I don’t wish to patronise the lexicogical intelligensia out there – some local experience: sound, feel, etc. So how does a machine possibly set in another continent – I’d yet to reach a human and played one of the recurrent guessing games of these telephonic marathons: where are you based? – know where I am? I am used to Al Gorhythms, that supersleuth of the net feeding me a diet of my prejudices, medical miracles from a Borneo jungle that are age appropriate and offers of instant friendship from some good ladies from Ukraine. But an answering service that can supply me with birdsong likely to be heard in South London on a stifling Wednesday in August? That is pretty extraordinary.

Eventually I was through. Now it was the part when they checked me for signs of early (who am I kidding?) Onset Alzheimers. Give me two numbers from the one you gave us x years ago; where did you first suffer from a verruca; your first pet’s inside leg measurement… the irony of all these checks is they aren’t necessary if you are paying an invoice. How very quaint.

Of course, some of you who may be more attuned to today’s disembodied world will click on the chatbot option and hope eventually to find an escape from the eighth circle of hell and form some sort of correspondence with the impatient person at the other end who is only too keen to disconnect you if you take more that the alloted seventeen seconds to answer. It is true that there seem to be quicker routes this way but I’m still wary.

For instance, a while ago I needed to create an account with HM Government to pay tax. I needed my date of birth, passport number and national insurance number. Having given all three I was told I didn’t exist and while there might have been a small benefit to remaining anonymous and avoiding paying tax, somehow that didn’t seem like a route to happiness.

I battled the onscreen forms, I spoke to my accountant who’d pointed me to this paying portal and I interacted with the chatbot all to no avail. Finally from somewhere I found a helpline number, staffed by a mildly depressed denizen of, I’d guess Bangalore. I didn’t hold out much hope but this wonderful woman sorted me out. Someone – I blame the bloody accountant – had me appearing in my other tax affairs with a hyphen in my surname. Not Le Pard but Le-Pard. The inclusions of the rogue dash utterly defeated the modern world but was apparent to the overworked and no doubt exhausted woman at the other end of the line (or whatever is the modern cliche when using a smart phone). She sorted me out, excised the errant inclusion in my online presence and freed me to play my dues.

It’s no use telling me the systems are constantly improving. I know they are but they are well off having the inbuilt flexibility of the human brain. I’ll even live the Dave Brubeck’s Dentistry Blues if I have to.

And because we’re always told to include a picture in our posts here are two of the garden. One from spring three years ago and yesterday…

Posted in miscellany, thought piece | 10 Comments

Tempus Fugit

… or it would if it wasn’t so bloody hot. The only flies are small black irritating ones

I did wonder if introducing air-conditioning to our refurb was necessary (my brother in law apparently always asks himself the question before buying anything: do I need it or do I want it?) It has soon became apparent it would pass PJ’s test. We also introduced solar, so if one ignores the capital cost of the panels, wiring, batteries etc, it’s actually free at the point of use.

And the nice people at Octopus pay us a small stipend for every kilowatt that we send back to the grid unused. It boggles my small brain how that happens: we have one cable and it somehow knows how to both deliver and take away electricity without the kilowatts bumping into each other. Such clever things, these kilowatts.

We were in the Netherlands recently. There I heard you don’t get paid for your surplus solar power and have to have a way to shut off your panels if you generate too much and the Dutch grid can’t take it. I suppose that’ll come to us soon enough with the current sun drenched days. Though there again, my education continues: apparently it can be too hot for solar panels so it’s not a case of another heat wave and whoopdeedo!

Talking of The Netherlands, both in Leiden where we started and in Amsterdam we noticed two things. First there were very few people overweight. That could be because they are fixated with cycling and like cyclists probably the world over a significant proportion do not give a flying fudge cake for anything so bourgeois as traffic rules. There are more bikes than people, a significant proportion of which end up in the canals.

That brings me to my second observation. There are few old people. My supposition is that anyone who cannot spin through 360 degrees while hopping left and right will inevitably be culled by an effing cyclist and probably join the bike in the canal.

It is a beautiful country, mind you and the people are generally charming. We enjoyed our mini break, visiting our niece who lives in Leiden with her fiancé.  Here are some pics.

Getting used to things like solar energy is just one part of having a new home in the old setting. So much feels the same yet works differently. For instance we had two doors rehung, in one case the handle side became the hinges and it opened outward instead of inward. For some while I was punching the frame, hunting for the handle until I acquired a new muscle memory. Mind you that hasn’t worked with the kitchen drawers and even two months into the new kitchen I’m opening the bin drawers looking for a tea spoon.

And it’s not just me. Several times Dog sits by the hinges waiting to be let through the kitchen door, making it frustrating for both of us.

Poor fella. He’s passed his seventeenth birthday and the new wooden floors throughout the ground floor don’t do him many favours. He doesn’t have the grip in his back legs to sit upright without slowly sliding into some bizarre yoga pose that I guess is called the spatchcock. If he wants to scratch some part of his ears he heads outside as he needs the friction generated by the lawn to be able to reach the relevant part.

Still he makes it onto the bed and eats well enough. His mind isn’t as sharp as it once was but he seems happy enough to potter around the garden checking for sniffs. Though the foxes follow him closely and I keep a watchful eye out. I don’t trust them not to have a good go at the old fella.

And the garden?

Mostly baked to a crisp; we’ve kept the lawn long this year so it looks like a hay meadow just now but the new water tanks we installed around the house filled quickly in some April storms and we’re still using the resulting offerings to keep the top beds colourful. I’m just grateful we’re not having a party this year.

Here are a few pictures for you.

And some of the old chap

So that’s me, back blogging. The house is done, we still need a few blinds and curtains and furniture but it all works rather well.

And for those who reach this far, my plans to write a series of fantasy novels based on a young exorcist are nearly complete. It will be a five book series of adventures, hopefully a lot of humour and intrigue along the way. Book five is two thirds done so I will finish it and then ask my editor Esther to tell me where I’ve gone wrong. She’s already reviewed the first three (or is it four, Esther?) and we think we may be onto a winner. If anyone wants a read for the summer then I’ll happily let you see the first one (or two books) which are finished and edited to whet appetites. Just drop a comment or use the contact link.

I guess I’m back; let’s see shall we? I need to find some prompts to get my short story juices flowing.

Posted in Books, gardening, holidays, home, miscellany | 25 Comments

A Bit Of  Now

We are still exiled, not that i mind this country life for now but things are moving on…

The hoarding has gone and the scaffolding will soon. The kitchen is in though its been wrapped to protect it so I’ve not seen it. Like the new floors.

Outside our marvellous gardener has kept things ticking

And the new pergola with solar panel roofing is looking amazing

Even nature is happy

Posted in miscellany | 23 Comments

Triggering moments

One of the bloggers I follow, Derrick Knight lives  on the edge of the New Forest about a mile from where I grew up. In a recent post he referenced pannaging which you may not have heard about.

This is where pigs owned by commoners who have acquired certain long held rights are allowed to release their livestock to forage for acorns.  These are poisonous to other livestock notably the wild ponies but also sheep so the voracious pigs are fed and protect the other animals.

All round a sensible idea.

But as a resident it does mean you have to get used to the presence of some socking great porkers. To be fair all they’re interested in is eating the goodies.

Well mostly.

My uncle and aunt ran a pub. As a result of the pub hours they had the afternoon off to indulge a past time or two and my uncle’s happy place was the golf course at Burley.

My dad didn’t play golf, showed no interest in it but the 15 year old very sporty me wanted to try. My uncle agreed to give me a few lessons and having hit a few fairly average drives into a net in the pub garden he told me I could join him for a teaching nine holes one sunny breezy day during the autumn half term.

My first drive soared splendidly into the air and curved right heading for France via impenetrable  gorse

That set a tone. By the fifth hole, set amongst the oak trees that feature around Burley I’d lost four balls and my uncle’s goodwill. Unexpectedly however on this par four my drive went vaguely along the fairway although it did come to rest just off the cut grass and under some low hanging branches.

‘You’ll need to keep the ball low to avoid the tree’. Uncle sounded confident as he showed me how to address the ball. I adopted the described stance tucked in a breath and drove at the ball determined to keep it low.

For once in that round serendipity joined me in connecting with ball in a perfect combination of power and precision.  The ball flew straight as a startled pheasant, destined  I felt sure for the green and my chance of a birdie.

For some ten feet my golfing career was laid out in front of me: leading amateur, star at St Andrews, youngest Open winner, hero of the Ryder Cup…

Then the ball connected with the only obstacle to whit the tree trunk and the ball took a sharp right turn.

I expect the ball was surprised; I certainly was but our reactions were as nothing to my uncle’s astonishment.

Given my errant driving he had begun to seek out places of safety while I took a shot but absent a concrete bunker a place at right angles seemed prudent.

So it was the rapid approach of a golf ball travelling with undiminished enthusiasm at testicle height caused a degree of both verbal consternation and unexpedly fine balletesque avoidance manoeuvres.

The ball shot past this instinctive arabesque and disappeared into the low growing shrubs while Uncle Rudolf Nearenough glared at me and then grinned. ‘You nearly had me there!’

The potential to find humour in this moment lasted perhaps thirty seconds before a deep rumbling animalistic expression of bemused consternation emanated from the undergrowth. 

A large pig, a sow from the line of teats stuck its head out of the foliage giving us but mostly uncle the eye. A somewhat jaundiced eye. The only conclusion the three of us could draw was a. The errant ball had hit said porker; b. Said porker was not pleased; and c. In its view my uncle was mostly likely the source of the painful projectile.

Female porcines are famed for the way they protect their young. But a close second in  rousing them to fury is being struck amidships by a golf ball while doing her civic duty in clearing the acorns

The roar and the chase were happily short but neither uncle and I had much appetite to continue. We repaired to the 19th hole where he had a restorative malt.

We never played again. Indeed neither did I ever embrace Mark Twain’s most loathed sport. I preferred team sports with moving balls and when my body gave up on those I avoided golf ostensibly to spend my spare time with the family.

But really the Shadow of the Old Spot loomed somewhere in that decision…

Posted in miscellany | 24 Comments