When I'm-a walkin I strut my stuff

The wife has been nagging me to do some exercise for as long as I care to remember. Now, exercise is really against my religion, and being a holy man, I stick to the scripture, er, religiously. This is probably why I look like Jabba the Hutt's stunt double. A few beers into a good session a couple of weeks ago, I got roped into a conversation about golf. Now I used to play golf nearly every weekend, so I can talk a good game. I can't play a good game however. No matter, I held my end up very well, and was humoured further when they found out I was a leftie. The Carp has a golf society that gathers every 5 or 6 weeks for a game and a bit of a day out. Too much lager had been consumed to politely decline their invitation.

There are a few snags with this:
1- I don't have a set of clubs (I think the last set I owned are still at the bottom of the imaginary lake that I imagined throwing them into after a particularly poor round some years ago);
2- When I did play golf nearly every weekend, I was what is technically described as shit. After the imaginary club drowning, I vowed never to play the evil sport again;
3- How the hell was I going to convince she-who-must-be-obeyed that exercise involves me blowing 200 notes on a set of clubs, going missing for 7 or 8 hours and returning home with sun stroke, a bad back and (more than likely) inebriated?

I tackled the hardest first and approached the subject with the missus. To my astonishment, she was enthusiastic and thought it was a wonderful idea, and suggested I go to the local pro shop to look for some clubs. This did freak me out a bit, but I soon recovered and took advantage of the situation before her mood changed. Of course now I own a brand new set of clubs, I have to try and get out for a game. As benevolent as she was in allowing me to buy a new toy, I think part two of number 3 (above) might be slightly more difficult. I'm predicting that she will allow me on the golf course when the following three criteria are met:
1- she is in a good mood;
2- Halley's Comet is visible in the midday sky;
3- There is a 'Z' in the month.

First things first, clubs in the boot, I headed off to the driving range early on Sunday morning to slap the covers off some dimpled feckers. It all started out ok. I warmed up by hitting a few short irons, and to my amazement, most of them went straight. The longer irons were next, and they to went as straight as the Wembley halfway line. Full of confidence, I pulled the driver out of the bag. It was at this point that Tiger Woods breathed a sigh of relief. The only things worried were the people in the booths next to me, and small woodland mammals that can't jump very high.

No matter, I was enjoying myself and bought a second bucket of balls. It was about 10 balls in that I started to feel a bit tired. My arms, back and wrists were hurting, and I started to sweat like a nonce at a Little Miss Sunshine pageant. I managed to get through the bucket and staggered back to the car feeling slightly light headed.

A couple of days later, my body aches all over. But worse still, I have a blister the size of a small island on my left thumb. Today it has settled down a bit, but blisters are right buggers. Just when you think you have got away with it, and the skin returns to your digit, you'll do something that will lift the skin up again. It's a bit like a married couple in trouble, no matter how much they try and make things better and pussy foot around, it only takes one incident to seperate completely and cause much pain. The pain in my thumb is in the post, guaranteed. My thumb skin will become estranged from my thumb the next time I catch it on something. Of course I will head back to the driving range before it heals.

I have been forced onto the physio's bench before my golfing career has even started. I feel a bit like David Beckham.

Quick update: the skin is still attached. It feels secure. The wife won't let me keep the clubs inside the house. It's outside or in the shed. She is a dear.