It was a weekend at my father’s house at the coast consisting of incessant, strong (and on Saturday bitterly cold) winds … occasional rain … long walks with Pippi’s dogs … an orgy of televised sport … my youngest brother’s family arriving for a roast beef Sunday lunch … and a three-hour round trip to Windlesham to play golf with my regular partners, in this case our first round off the white (back) tees this year.

For me it was a familiar and dispiriting one. Though I drove comparatively well, once on the fairway (especially approaching the green) I could neither aim the ball accurately nor play a proper shot. On three occasions I chipped the ball sideways at right angles. On another, seventy yards out with an open green to the flag, I attempted a chip-and-run with a 7 iron and sent the ball at forty-five degrees left straight into the only bunker. By the end I had convinced myself I could have done no worse had I used my putter throughout.

In such personal circumstances, playing with someone who is deadly accurate - and I mean that, he can hit the ball to within ten feet of the pin from any distance up to one hundred and fifty yards, his maximum range with any club – verges upon masochism. I finished with 106, ten and six shots respectively behind my opponents and resolved for the third time since January that the 2007 season would be my last.