So there I was, lying in my old bed in the family home a few years back and brooding magnificently. My backbone was an amoebic sponge soaking up all higher resolve and positivity. All my early morning gloom was lacking was a Smiths album playing in the background.
Actually, I was just bored. Or so I thought as I began to feel the postcard-blue haze of an unseasonably bright winter’s morning filtering through the closed curtains and my mood lifted. The word golf dropped into my brain and I sprang up from my misery, dressed and washed quickly and was soon in the shed disentangling my old golf clubs and cart from the clutter.
He’s going to shoot any minute now: the All-Priests Over 75s Indoor Challenge match … or my weekly five-a-side game?
The nights are drawing in and those ankle ligaments strained months ago are still not right. But it’s just a twinge now and as the evenings stretch out long — unlike my strung-out hamstrings — my Wednesday night indoor soccer game is calling me back.
How dignified is it to be still drawn to that draughty old sports hall to run … trundle … around red-faced and panting and kicking ball for an hour with similarly deluded/evergreen old boys? Sure even my 12-year-old son has told me I have no pace. Just saying it like it is.
When is it over? Continue reading