I’ve often been accused of having no patience. I fucking well do have patience, and I don’t have time for anyone who says I don’t.
To prove my point, I took up golf. A game where one needs nothing but patience. My boyfriend laughed. ‘You’ll never play golf’, he snorted.
I was determined to prove him wrong.
I signed up for six lessons, thinking it would be a breeze. After all, I played tennis for Zimbabwe when I was 12. How hard could golf be?
Look down at the ball, lift the club, smack it down the middle of the fairway.
I told Pete, my teacher, this was going to be so easy, I would only need three lessons. He could cancel the other three.
The first lesson was spent looking at the ball but not smacking it down the fairway. I spent a lot of time smacking my heels, smacking the grass, smacking my forehead, smacking the air and wanting to smack Pete. I threw my clubs into the bushes, fetched my clubs from the bushes, had a beer at the club house to calm down, had another beer at the club house, had two more, lurched out and told Pete he was a crap teacher. I went home.
Lesson Two was exactly the same as lesson one, only with more beer.
For my final lesson, Pete told me to watch him carefully. I did, becoming very aware of body shape. I looked at Pete’s body and I looked at mine. He was built like Tiger Woods. I was built like Pamela Anderson. There was the problem. My breasts kept getting in the way of my swing. For the sake of my golf career, I considered a breast reduction and discussed it with Pete. He suggested I wait until I got onto the golf course, before making any rash decisions.
Lessons over, Pete booked a tee off time for us, Houghton Golf Course. I shot 107. And that was before I got to the second hole.
By the third hole I’d ripped off my sports bra, phoned the Surgeon and booked the reduction. By the fourth hole I’d run out of balls and by the fifth, I’d broken the clubs.
Pete suggested we take a break. I suggested he go and fuck himself. I was determined to finish. But only if we could do it very quickly.
He said we couldn’t, that’s not how golf works.
I thanked him for his patience and stormed off the course, wondering why I’d wanted to play this stupid game in the first place. I got home and slammed the door.
“You see”, my boyfriend said. “I knew you wouldn’t have the patience to play golf.”
He looked so funny walking with that 9 iron coming out of his arse.
Who the fuck needs patience anyway. I can have it if I want it, and fuck you for saying I can’t.
Taking up croquet next week…
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