@April. YESSS! Thanks for coming to my defence. Nothing wrong with McD’s…in moderation.

@Steph Ahhh. You obviously know something about Family Guy and Southpark, m’Kay?

That makes up for the vegetarian thing (hee! hee! hee!).

A series of tiny, barely perceptible adjustments take place in the space of a heartbeat. Gloves are pulled tight, stitching binding to the skin in a long-standing symbiosis of man and delicate Italian couture. Golfing spikes are gently eased past frightened blades of crew-cut grass, rooting sportsman to earth like statue to pedestal.

A swing. A delicate ‘twhack’. A ball takes flight. The drive climbs high, its velocity ferocious. 360 dimples fight rushing air for aerodynamic supremacy. The ball’s core takes over, a secret compound of metal and lab-nurtured polymers, trained to hone in on the the tiniest fragment of steel — the flag pole that marks its drop zone.

Something’s not right. The ice white globe veers sharply, plummeting towards the club car park. It finds its mark on the bonnet of a 1967 Corvette Sting Ray, kissing a deep dent perfectly in the centre in a manner that hints at the intentional; an addition that instantly corrupts the low, sweeping line of the front end.

“Good golly. I do hope that wasn’t yours?”

And with you on the tweets, nobody is ever there when I am on.

Then the cocky grin flashes, and in one smooth, swift movement, the club swings like a baseball bat, knocking the sparkling silver coin in what would surely be a home run.

“Tails.” Nimble fingers twirl the club and he tips his head a touch. “But since you and I are above chasing money,” he watched the coin drop into the grass yards away, “and the skirts chase us instead of the other way around, I say…”

He swept a gentlemanly arm (the one they all wonder over) in a low bow. “After you. Since I’m going to whip your pants (or trousers, in case the Brits were wondering), the least I can do is let you tee off.”

@ Tei – I promise not to deadhead the roses.

Tei, I think you get to keep your Albany beer to yourself, for now. It looks like I have to postpone my trip to mountainville. Bugger.

Kelly: Hurrah for Jim Henson! Why they canceled The Storyteller, I’ll never know.

April: It looks like we haven’t moved on, just moved over to the Nick-and-James storytelling hour. Watch as it unfolds . . .

James and Nick: Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind being just a little more careful where you swing those putters, I believe the bystanders would be grateful. They are rather hard, after all.

Pornography? Surely you jest, sah. We never have anything of the sort about this establishment. You must be mistaking us for someone else.

Four seconds pass in silence, broken only by the the crack of ice breaking in a fine single malt — a Dalmore ‘62. Nick looks up from his glass and flashes a grin.

“Porno, you say? Never been my thing. Too much chafing if you ask me, my friend.” In a single swift movement, he launches a driver from his bag, spins it two and a half turns anti-clockwise, and sends a previously unseen coin spinning into the air. “Heads or tails?”

He screeches to a stop next to Nick’s cart… or tries to… grabs a golf bag from the back and slides out of the seat.

“Dude. What’s up?” Squinting at the sun, he surveys the course, then takes another swig of beer. “They’re checking out porn over there,” the man nods at a gaggle of women.

Then he draws a club, and scans the horizon, calculating distance between ball and hole. “Your shot or mine?”