Listening to: Times Like These (Jack Johnson)
Weather: You name it. . .
What's for tea: Christmas dinner (really!)
I don't have much time for golf as a rule. Elitist, expensive, crushingly dull - the Conservative Party at play. The only time grown men who have no idea how to dress themselves wear clothes their wives/secretaries haven't chosen for them.
I've played twice and the only thing more boring than playing a round of golf is the conversation in the bar (which always serves lousy beer) afterwards.
However, I'm giving some serious consideration to taking the game up following a visit to my local course.
Golf in Scotland, much like opera in Italy, is far more accessible to folk from all walks of life than south of the border, but that's not the only reason. The course on Westray makes the average Marines assault course look like a nature ramble - crazy golf, if you like.
The course is behind Pierowall village, between Grobust beach and Noltland Castle, and very much open to the elements, particularly the north winds which blow sand over much of it and rabbits. It's a nine-holer (I think). That's if you don't count the rabbits - in that case it's a 1,275-holer.
The Boy and I have had two or three walks across it and counted half-a-dozen "greens" (I use the word advisedly) the other day. Today another one had miraculously reappeared from under a thick covering of sand.
One green is even fenced off in an attempt, I presume, to keep the rabbits off. The fairways are either a bit rough or (as you can see in the picture of - we reckon - the fifth green) under water.
The biggest sand trap is about 15yd long and the upper lip is maybe ten feet high.
There's a cow's skeleton in it.
There's no poncey clubhouse, no manicured turf, no dull BMW-driving executives. Just a real sporting challenge and a pint in the Pierowall Hotel afterwards.
Gotta get me some bats.