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| Sunday Lunches and the President |
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| Written by Sara Woodward |
| Monday, 25 January 2010 09:03 |
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Love to come to lunch. Will bring the wine x He went to bed dreaming of pudding with lashings of ice cream. With hindsight, baked beans on toast by the fire would have been the safer option. The day of the lunch arrived. I set up the ironing board, pressed the sky plus and ironed the odd shirt, in between watching the Big Boys on Tour swig their water and smash the ball down the fairway. I threw another log on the fire, watched the lightening fast putts and waved the iron slowly over a pillow case. Time flies when it does not involve work, the dentist or stirring something on the stove. “Are you ready?” called the Golf Police from upstairs. There were two holes to play and it was not only the leader of the pack who would find they cost him dear. “Give me five minutes” I said, ironed another pillow case and watched the last two holes. The journey did not start well. “I knew we would be late leaving” The subtext translated: “Why did you have to watch the golf?” We got stuck in road works, gridlock and red lights. “Which is the best way?” “Ask your Sat Nav Bitch” I whispered under my breath. “What did you say?” “I said go the back way”. The bottles of wine and flowers lay in the foot well of the car, the lights were stuck on red. We went the back way and met a reversing car. In theory it should not have been a problem, but the gap between theory and practice turned out to be slightly bigger than the reality gap. As the Golf Police passed the reversing car, White Van Man approached at speed and disappeared at speed. He took our wing mirror with him. There was a machine gun burst of expletives, interspersed with the reversing woman’s IQ being called into question and the parentage of the White Van Man disputed. It was not pretty and was a time for silence and reflection but sometimes the lips beat the message of caution from the brain. “Why didn’t you wait until she finished reversing?” Some questions have no answers and it hung in the air like the broken bits of the wing mirror. By the time we reached the motorway it began to snow and the ironing board and fire seemed a long time ago. The flakes were big and fell silently. Gritters were conspicuous by their absence and the fast and slow lane disappeared. We crawled, the wine still in the foot well and the only sound the incessant bleep of the proximity bleepers from the falling flakes. The lunch was everything of which the Golf Police dreamed and more. Scallops and rocket with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. Roast lamb and cranberry with honey glazed carrots, cabbage and dauphanoise potatoes. Eton mess, profiteroles, strawberries and cream. Cheese, grapes and chocolates, washed down with fine wines. “Just like being at home” I said. The Golf Police forgot about wing mirrors and reversing women and tucked into the gastronomic heaven. He tried each of the puddings with extra cream on the profiteroles. It was dark when we left and the car slithered along the icy road. We reached the motorway and followed the brake lights of the car ahead as the white lines disappeared. I offered assistance when it seemed appropriate. “Don’t you think you are a bit near the car in front?” The only sounds were the sighs and bleep of the bleepers. We made it home on the one wing mirror. The snow continued to fall and it became a game between the flakes and the gritters. The flakes won by a seven and six margin. All golf courses closed as the fairways and bunkers were buried deep. The Transport Minister spoke from his chauffer driven car and urged the country to buy a snow shovel and do their bit. Sodium Chloride was rationed and there was no armada of snow ploughs. Buses slithered and trains stopped. Cars slid and pedestrians fell on icy pavements. Supermarkets ran out of pasta, loo rolls and bags of salt. Schools closed and children tobogganed, built snow men and dodged snow balls. Hospitals were on red, Fracture Clinics ordered more plaster and sent emails to the blackberrys of Orthopaedic Surgeons who had escaped icy runways and fled to the sunshine. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU The Bone Doctors checked their blackberrys and glanced at the warm waters of the Caribbean. Turned the page of their book, slung the blackberry on the sun lounger, adjusted the shades and soaked the rays. The Swindlers put their clubs away and dug out the DVDs of The Ryder Cup and The Open. They putted on the carpet and put new spikes in their shoes. They fixed shelves, hung pictures and watched the golf channel. They goggled golf and read books on Seve, Hogan and the Golfing Greats. When the roads were less treacherous, they made it to the club for coffee. The Pro ate his porridge and looked out wistfully to the submerged fairways. “You lead the life of Reilly” he said. I made a note to google this Reilly chap. Maybe he ironed shirts and watched golf and threw logs on the fire. The Window Cleaner had made it up the hill to the clubhouse, his ladders still attached precariously to the car roof. “So you lot aren’t going out then?” he said slurping his strong sweet tea. The Swindle, as one, looked out to the snow covered fairways and let the question hang like the forlorn flags. He wouldn’t back off. “Thought you lot always went out?” he continued. Pancake took the bait. “Why don’t you go and find some windows to clean in Dubai?” The Swindlers drank their tea and talked about snow and ice and front and rear wheel drives. The conversation swung from the golfing President in the White House and politicians to football teams and pork pies. “Leave it to me, Sid” I said, “I’ll ask the White House leftie if he wants a game”. We drank the caffeine and discussed new drivers, old drivers and banned grooves. Soft balls, hard balls and lost balls. Hooking, slicing and three putting. Sid was going to try out a new car and putter. Pancake and Gus had to fix the next round of their knock out. The Pro finished his porridge, checked his emails and did a stock check of shoes. “Time to get back before it snows again” said Gus. Ruggy slipped the Range Rover into snow mode and it hugged the icy crystals. Big Rich slithered back to Surry and the Window Cleaner left with his frozen frosty ladders. Behind lay the silent fairways with their snow prints of deer, fox and pheasant, frozen lake and eighteen forlorn flags. When I got home I threw another log on the fire and a casserole in the oven. Chicken with onions, carrots and dumplings. As it carbonized in the oven, I googled replacement wing mirrors and ‘Reilly’. Replacement costs were not cheap and Reilly and I had little in common. Before rescuing the casserole, I winged an email to America. Dear President Obama, Wishing you a Happy New Year from across the water. We got hit by a few snow storms but are riding them out. We hear you are a golfer and Sid thought if you ever get to England, you should look us up for a game. We have a game plan. We have our own Sheriff, so security won’t be an issue and we have lots of south paws, so we can fix you up with some good clubs. We are a few three woods away from Churchill’s Place in the Country. We could have a game and then show you around his crib. Yours, The Swindle, Westerham, England The Golf Police made it home with the broken wing mirror and as we ate the casserole and dumplings, the flakes still fell from the snow laden sky.
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