I want to tell you about that day I was trapped in a room with a man who wanted to talk about GOLF.
Golf.
Golf. Golf.
He went on and on.
I couldn’t escape as I was waiting in hospital for an appointment (which was a long, long wait of 3 hours: I had awoken with a painful red and swollen eye and the queue for Emergency Eyes happened to be particularly long that day).
Anyway. He sidled up to me, a hopeful glint in his eye.
“Do you play golf?”
No. I replied. I do not play golf.
“Golf is great!” he said. “Of course. we’re trying to get some younger people into golf at the Club!” He smiled at me eagerly with golfish eyes.
I couldn’t even appear distracted or occupied with a book or my iPhone. Sore, dodgy eye you see, (or don’t see) so I couldn’t look at anything except GolfMan.
He pulled up a plastic chair next to me in the Golfing Room.
Of course, it wasn’t a Golfing Room.
It was a Waiting Room.
In a hospital.
Where I waited and waited while he rattled on about golf.
How much he liked golf.
A round of golf.
Good golf courses.
Getting people into golf.
How I should pop along and try a game of golf.
Golf.
Golf.
Gulf. Golf.
It was a long, long, long painful AND golfishly annoying afternoon.
the crone 