Good news – I’m no longer a golf widow. But wait, hold the celebration, golf has only been replaced with football. The nation grinds to a halt as Euro 2016 fever grips the country. Himself is off to Bordeaux to worship at the altar of football. In a couple of days he will set off on a ten day solo road trip across France on his beloved Ducati motorbike (I only recently learned what make it was, previously referred to as ‘a red one’ if asked). Lovingly buffed up and ready for the trip.
Thank God it’s finally arrived. I don’t think I could take much more of this insanity. To say the meticulous planning of this trip was executed with military precision would be an understatement. I sometimes wondered if the house would ever return to normal. I look forward to the joys of coming down to my kitchen each morning and not have spare motorbike parts strewn across the counter tops, not have maps spread out across the table, yellow stickers on the fridge or messages from Airbnb every time I open my iPad. Finally, normal family life may resume.
Check lists made, maps drawn up, a new phone purchased to ensure Google maps working, Airbnb booked months in advance and of course the much sought after golden ticket tucked safely away in his wallet (match tickets reportedly changing hands for 10 times their face value). I’d say he’s ready.
Last night we had the trial run. The rucksack packed, unpacked, repacked. I tried lifting it, but couldn’t. “What have you got in there – a few gold bars?, a spare engine?”. On inspection, I wasn’t far off. 90% of the bag consisted of tools for the bike, spare parts, bulbs, barely room for a pair of shorts and a couple of green t-shirts. If only I could pack so light. Just as well I’m not tagging along as I’d never manage with less than 15 pairs of shoes.
Ahh, looking at his happy little face as he gets on his beloved Ducati, his anticipation of a momentous journey, a trip of a lifetime, his pride in being able to join the Green Army, ’twud bring a tear to the eye.
Four days of no housework, no cooking, crisps and takeaways for dinner. A weekend where I hang up my domestic Goddess crown, normal life suspended while we curl up in front of the TV to worship at the altar of golf.
I can’t say when exactly my devotion began, I think by osmosis. If I leave the room while watching The Good Wife, I return to find it magically switched to Sky Sports News while the ads are on. There was no epiphany, just a form of gentle brain washing combined with years of exposure to golf talk.
Maybe I was drawn to the sheer beauty of Augusta, although knowing my deeply shallow disposition, it was probably the clothes. I clearly remember watching ladies golf and loving the cute little pastel shirts with matching check shorts. Whatever the reason, I can now talk shop with the best of them (I even know what a swing coach is).
This year’s Masters provided the right amount of highs and lows. Fellow countrymen McIlroy and Shane Lowry had promising starts but fell apart on day 3. The back nine on the final day is what really sorts the mice from the men and this years didn’t disappoint. Westwood, one of my favourites, had a chip-in eagle on the par-five 15th to put this former number one within a shot of Willett, only for a bogey on the next and two final pars to leave him short. Danny Willett, seemed to come from nowhere on the last day to claim the glorious green jacket. .Never mind Rory, there’s always next year.
NiftyFiftyShades 