Teed Off

Unlike some people, sport is not my middle name. Sloth, greed, maybe, but definitely not sport. At school I was not only the last to be picked for a team, but my classmates would refuse to play if I even watched from the sidelines.
However, faced with life in a new country, I thought I would give it another shot. That and the fact that my new friend Buffy, not her real name, was eager to give it a try.
I have always thought of myself of a little uptight. I like to know details and have everything in its place. But next to Buffy, I am a slob. We're like the odd couple.
Buffy is tall, blond and extremely slim. She looks very fit, even though she claims to only attend pilates once a week. I think she's lying.
I, on the other hand, am short, brunette, blond and God knows what else since my visit to the local hair salon. On a good day I would describe myself as "cuddly", on a bad day, "flabby".
We arrived at the golf course early, which came as no surprise to me. If I am always early, Buffy is always even earlier. Our instructor was Jason. He normally teaches school kids, so to come across two older women must have been a refreshing change. At least we weren't chewing gum and wearing ipods.
I was astonished to see we actually had to drive out to the back of the course. I was happy to have Buffy drive. The buggy was no bigger than my new car, but I'm not sure I'm ready for another vehicle just yet.
The first 10 minutes were spent in Jason explaining which end of the club was which, what each part was called and how to hold it. Since my only previous encounter was being wacked in the eye with one as a 10-year-old, I needed this information. Buffy pretended she did, but I bet she didn't really.
We practised our stance. I stood behind Buffy since the last thing I needed was a slip of a girl standing behind my ever widening girth as I addressed the ball.
"You should be good at this," said Jason. "You come from the place golf first started."
Guess he doesn't realise how far London is from Scotland, but never mind, we were here for golf, not geography.
Buffy "I haven't had a lesson for 20 years", took her first swing at the ball and watched it fly into the air. So did I. Watch her, I mean.
Then it was my turn.
The first swing missed completely. Subsequent ones tore into the grass like a mechanical digger. This was harder than it looked.
Apart from my lack of hand/eye co-ordination, I also faced the other problem of my chest getting in the way of my arms. Bet Arnold Palmer never had to worry about that.
"Let's try it without the ball," Jason suggested.
"Right, that'd make it easier," I grumbled. "How about without the club?"
This time I hit the tee so hard it compressed into the ground. If only I could have done that with the ball.
Apparently you have to keep your eye on the ball. I had heard that expression before, but never realised its origins. Of course if I looked at the ball, which wasn't going anywhere anyway, it meant I couldn't twizzle round to see where my club was.
After a few minutes, Buffy was really getting into the swing of things - another golfing idiom I guess.
"So what angle does my number 7 iron need to be at with the perpendicular of my right knee to make the ball travel at 23 miles an hour in a south westerly direction?" she asked gaily.
Ok, she didn't exactly ask that, but she's certainly one for details. She likes to ask every conceivable question in order to improve her game. She'll probably be playing against Tiger Woods next season.
Personally, I'd be happy to find out how to attach magnets to the club and the ball. It's probably the only way I'm going to hit it.
By the end of a very long hour, I'm pleased to report I did actually hit a few balls, and one or two of them even made it into the air without hitting anybody.
However, my back was aching and I was so exhausted I thought I was going to pass out.
"How about one more perfect shot before we finish?" Jason asked bravely.
I don't think he saw me sneer from my place on the bench. I was obscured by Buffy's ball sailing up into the heavens.