to follow the rules. I was ready to stand at the golf-club bar, talking casually about “par 4” and “birdies.”
But none of that came into it, because we didn’t go near a golf club. It turned out that my big challenge of the day wasn’t the people or the rules or even the outfit, it was hitting the golf ball. Which turns out to be impossible.
Matt took me to a driving range, gave me a bucket of balls and a club and a quick lesson. He said that I would probably miss the first few times I tried to hit the ball, but after that, things would fall into place.
Things did not fall into place. I aimed carefully at every single one of those wretched bloody balls, and I missed them all. All! Do I need to get my eyes tested? Or my arms tested?
It was so embarrassing. Especially because a couple of other golfers noticed my failure and started watching. Then one of them clocked Matt as being Rob Warwick’s brother and they called over a friend. They all thought it was hilarious. When I got to the last ball in the bucket, I could actually hear them laying bets. By this time my face was beetroot and I was panting, and I was so determined to hit the last ball that I gave an extra-energetic swing. Which meant I didn’t just miss but wedged the golf club right into the ground, practically dislocating my shoulder.
I will say I have more respect for golfers now. Because what they do—hit the ball all round the course, without once missing it—feels like a superhuman feat to me.
On the way home, Matt asked, did I want to try again? And I said, maybe we should stick to the tai chi for now. And that’s how we left it.
So golf was a bit of a fail. And then that night we had a row because Matt decided to “tidy up” my flat and got rid of some essential notes for my book. Like, essential.
“They were ratty Post-its,” he said, when I confronted him. “You hadn’t looked at them for weeks.”
“But I was going to!” I said furiously. “They were vital to my novel!”
I was quite cross, I must admit. The notes were all about Clara’s upbringing in Lancashire, and I’d come up with a brilliant anecdote about a mangle and I’ll never remember it.
“To be honest, I thought you’d given up on the novel,” he said with a shrug, and I stared at him in shock.
“Given up? Matt, it’s a work in progress.”
“Uh-huh.” He surveyed me warily. “But you never do any writing.”
“I have a job, if you remember, Matt,” I reminded him, in prickly tones.
“Right.” He nodded. “But all you’ve done this week is talk about the other book you want to do. I suppose I got confused. Sorry.”
At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. Other book? Then my brow cleared. It’s not his fault he can’t keep up with my portfolio career.
“That’s not a book, that’s a podcast,” I explained kindly. “Totally different.”
I’m quite excited by my podcast idea, actually. I want to start a craft discussion, inspired by my Etsy batik. I’ll interview other crafters and we’ll talk about how our projects enhance our lives. I just need to get the equipment and decide on a name for it.
“Speaking of which,” I added, looking around, “where is my batik?”
“D’you mean that chewed rag under the sofa?” Matt said, and I bristled again, because what is it with the pejorative language?
(It was under the sofa. And to be fair, Harold had chewed it a bit, but it’ll be fine.)
(Also: I must find time for my batik, because the materials cost quite a lot and I was planning to sell five cushions, but I haven’t made any yet.)
Anyway. Never mind. Golf is a minor detail. And everyone has little arguments. And there have been brilliant times too. Like this morning, when we tried a more advanced tai chi routine and we aced it! Then Topher sent us a video he’d secretly taken of us doing tai chi at different times, set to “Eye of the Tiger.” It’s really funny—in fact, I can’t stop watching it.
But the most positive thing of all is that tonight we’re holding our drinks party! We’ve decided to host it at Matt’s flat, and as I bustle around, filling bowls with crisps, I feel quite excited.