I stupidly played golf on Friday with a couple guys from my usual Saturday crowd. Nick, it turned out, had certificate for a free round of golf for a foursome, so we got off lightly on cost. Weather cooperated. Rain on one hole only. I played poorly on the front and well on the back. It was a great day.
And then the pain began. I got home
We were awake until after 2AM on Friday night trying to get the apartment organized to move. Consisted of trying to figure out what to take on the plane with us, what to put into air shipment, what to ship via sea, what to throw out, what to give away, what to consume before we leave. And on and on and on. I was proud of myself: I only screamed out loud five or six times.
I roused myself on Saturday to play golf for the last time with my posse though. Wife dropped me at the course. Looked like it was going to rain like crazy. Six of us were ready and willing to play. I started proceedings with a birdie on the first hole. (That's good for you non-golfers.) And then, in one of those most rare of events, proceeded to play one of the best rounds of golf in the last five years. I shot 84 for a net 66 with my 18 handicap in our golf society. It might even be good enough to win the medal competition we were all competing in that day. How cool is THAT?
We had our usual pint of beer each and settled up our bets after the round. I won low net on the front and low net total, even though the lads only let me play off 15 handicap within our little group.
What a great way to end my UK golf career.
Wife drove to club, picked me up, and we all migrated to one of our gang's house for a BBQ. Wives, girlfriends and other hangers on also showed up. Weather cooperated, and everything was just perfect. The guys gave me a copy of Harvey Penick's "Little Red Golf Book" -- a classic instruction manual by one of the game's most respected teachers.
Today's been spent trying to make sense of chaos in getting packed to move to the hotel tonight.
And I'm late. And that's all for now.
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