Recently I bumped into an old friend (I was going to say golfing buddy, but that would be pushing it.)

 

“Hi Janice.”

 

I could swear she was smirking, but after the pleasantries enquired.

 

“Still playing golf?”

 

“No time these days Julie,” I fibbed.

 

To let you understand, three of my long standing friends had invited me along to their girls' golfing holiday abroad, and although I bought all the gear and even a new set of golf clubs, I was rather nervous because I was a novice golfer.

 

“Its four days in the sun,” a colleague smiled.

 

“You’ll probably never make it on to a golf course.”

 

How wrong was he.

 

Day one and the Portuguese heat was immense, especially as they had chosen a tee-off time of 1pm.

 

Somehow I managed to keep up with the others, but as we were walking on the exposed fairway, suddenly the sky got very dark.

 

Next minute torrents of heavy rain lashed down and we realised that none of us had an umbrella or waterproof jacket and were quickly soaked to the skin.

 

My hair was like wet rats tails, my bright pink golf top was saturated and water was soon running down my legs.

 

“You’ll dry out as soon as the sun come out again,” my pal assured me.

 

But I wasn’t worried about drying out, after all, I’m Scottish and used to getting soaked.

 

No, I was more concerned by the fact that fake tan had started to seep through my now very transparent white trousers, and I looked as though I had soaked myself in a bath of tea.

 

Uncomfortably damp and squelchy, we were now at the eighth hole which was a particularly difficult one, and trying my best to avoid the water hazard I managed to lose ball after ball in the rough.

 

I raked in my golf bag and found that I was running short of golf balls, but luckily for me a golf cart drew up alongside mine driven by a local lad who shouted.

 

“Hello lady, you want to buy golf ball?”

 

“How much?” I asked knowing I had only a few left.

 

“For you lady very cheap.”

 

Next minute he produced six bright pink golf balls from his cart.

 

“15 Euro for six balls.”

 

“But…….they’re my golf balls”. I quickly realised that the scoundrel was selling me back my own lost golf balls.

 

“You lose lady,” he laughed.

 

“And I find.”

 

“Bloody hell, I’ve just paid 15 Euros for my own balls,” my pals thought this was hilarious as we carried on.

 

Without realising it, I discovered (much to my relief) that we were finally on the last fairway heading towards the 18th hole.

 

I was last to take my shot and thought I had done fairly well considering I had now been golfing for four and a half hours in 110% heat with my sleek hair now like Alice Cooper, manky, patchy tanned stained jeans and sweat pouring from every inch of my body.

 

Driving off in our golf carts to assess the situation I shouted to my friend Julie.

 

“Who are all those people over there?”

 

“We’re at the 18th hole Janice and that’s the clubhouse.”

 

I was horrified to see that the clubhouse was absolutely jam-packed with golfers enjoying the sunshine whilst watching golfers finish their game.

 

Stepping out of my golf cart, it seemed like a million sets of eyes were looking at us.

 

My pals were nervous too but took their shots and lucky them their ball settled within feet of the hole.

 

“Keep calm Janice,” my friend suggested when it was my turn.

 

“Keep calm. Keep calm,” I repeated to myself.

 

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

 

Selecting my club I stood in position shaking like a leaf and finally swung it back just enough to take my shot.

 

But…. Somehow it whacked off the golf cart making and unusually loud clanging noise.

 

Julie whispered to me.

 

“Well…… if no one was watching you earlier Janice, they are now.”

 

And she was right, because people were actually standing up to get a better look.

 

‘Here we go again,” I groaned.

 

I took a deep breath, stood in position and swung my club.

 

Initially I was relieved that I had actually hit the ball, however it then ricochet off a nearby tree, then hit another tree before settling in a rather awkward spot near the bloody club house.

 

“That was like watching a pin ball machine.” The girls were in stitches and all the while I just wanted a sink hole to open and swallow me up.

 

Laughter bellowed around the clubhouse, which was predominantly full of men, and I surmised that it was down to my humiliating floor show and not the amount of alcohol consumed.

 

So………. you’ll now understand why, when I bumped in to Julie I lied and said I was too busy to play golf.

 

Enough is enough.