I dusted off my clubs (euphemism for removing rat droppings) and gave the new decade my best shot, together with about 98 of my worst shots. My clubs are entering their fourth decade of service, which might explain their reluctance to do my bidding.
My neighbour and I set forth on a blazing February morning and had our usual ding-dong battle on the front nine – 1 up, all square, 1 up, all square or, if you must, I picked up, he picked up, I picked up, he picked up, etc.
Our salvation was found at the halfway house. There is something about a proper English breakfast that resonates with a man’s soul and, with one each inside us, we improved on the back nine to the extent that it…