If Hercules thought he had it tough holding the sky for Atlas, he should try living in this house. I have nipped out and bought the apples and the milk but things at HQ are not good. The computer has packed up. It has decided it can’t find the printer. I have shown it the printer. I have picked it up and held it up to the screen. I have tried logic and anger and threats but nothing makes any difference. It has decided the printer is no longer on the desktop. Even worse, it has wiped the email address book. There were 250 addresses of people who communicate through my cyberspace. I have exclusive electronic relationships with many of them and now they have disappeared from my screen and my life. There are a few who will not be missed. I have had a fairly full on intense relationship with a man whose life is too tragic to contemplate. He has lost all his family and wants to give me all his money. All I have to do in return for this good man is send him my bank details. He says he cannot think of anyone he would rather give his ten million dollars. So Dr. Joseph if you ever get to read this, perhaps you could put the cheque in the post. Or I could just pop out to Nigeria. I won’t miss the emails of scantily clad Russian hookers who need a friend or a bed for the night. The computer and I have decided to call it a day. I wrote it one last letter..

Dear Computer,

This is you leaving my life. I have tried to meet your needs but it’s a one way street. You always take more than you give and will never commit. I ask you to look after things and you lose them or say you never had them. How many times did I wait for you to get back to me about some problem? Night after night after night. We never even spoke the same language. You used to frighten me with words like fatal and terminal.

I will never forgive you for losing my email addresses. I know you didn’t approve of some of my electronic friendships but they were important to me. And you were crap with your firewall. How come all those obscene emails made it through? Some DMZ or whatever you called your bombproof firewall.

Then we come to your party piece. Do you know how cold it was standing on the practice ground, having my swing put on video. How many balls I hit. How many hinges and shoulder turns. I did all the downloading and dragging bit and somehow you managed to send an unreadable file. That was you on probation and then you crossed the line with the printer. You lost the printer. We both know it was on the desk.

When I have finished typing this letter I am going to save it to your hard drive. In my world this is known as a ‘Dear John letter’. You won’t understand because it involves emotion. Then I am going to terminate this relationship. I will cut the plug off and lug you to the dump. You might end up in India. Someone might get to read this letter and they will know how much I tried to make this work. Maybe we just were not meant for one another. I am off to find an Apple, just like Atlas.

Yours,

I rang around for some new quotes to replace the computer. The girl from the computer company was having a bad day. She says my call is very important to them, but she is nipping off for a coffee and will put me on hold. The fairground music is quite soothing but after an hour I want to get in my car and whack someone hard with my three wood. I get to the head of the queue and they agree to send some quotes. I try to tell her about the email address book. The line goes dead, she moves onto the next call.

It’s not just the computer that’s packed up. The new boiler is great. But now the pump has called it a day. The Gasman works on Sunday but Spare Parts has closed. He might be able to get a new pump in a few days. He wears a beanie and laughs like a machine gun. I am not sure what’s funny about being cold when it’s -6 outside and snowing. And I know that the new pump will arrive on a golf day. Sometimes in these situations there is only one thing to do. I jump in the car, turn on the heater and head for the coast.

The Pro listens sympathetically when I tell him my tale of woe. The driver is not earning its place in the bag. It was a bit like the computer. At first we seemed a marriage made on the fairways but then the rough muscled in on our relationship. One day, I lent it to a fairway buddy. An Irish front row. No neck and cauliflower ears. Grip like a vice. The club has never been the same. I think the grip has done something to the shaft. Every time I stand on the tee it feels different. The Pro listens and tapes up half a dozen drivers. He doesn’t dispute my logic and senses a sale.

“Don’t look at the price or the make. Just see what feels right”

I took the clubs and my bucket of balls and headed off to the practice ground.

An hour later I made my decision. A cash transaction. No paper trails. We head back to the motorway.

“Good day?” said the Golf Police.

The driver was stowed in the back of the wardrobe. The Gas Man came back with his manic laugh and beanie hat. He can’t fix the pump. Spares gave him the wrong one. He rattles off another laugh. He will have to call again. The Golf Police said we had to go easy on the credit card and the driver remained out of sight.

When the coast was clear, the driver became the fourteenth club in the bag. On Its first outing, it was clear we were made for one another. Like fish and chips. Strawberries and cream. Bacon and eggs. The drives flew with draw and found every fairway with metronomic precision. I nicknamed him Sniper. Par fives were breached and the score card was looking good. I never lent Sniper to anyone and the Holy Grail of the Driver had begun and ended. I often look back and think if only I had not answered the phone. But fairy tales seldom have happy endings.

I remember the night I took the call. Shepherds’ pie and banana custard. The Golf Police had the remote and the dishwasher hummed quietly away in the corner. And then the phone rang.

There was an away match. I knew the course well. Any chance I could take two of the ladies for a courtesy round? Give them a few tips and local knowledge? It seemed a reasonable request.

I recall it was a freezing cold day. We were dressed to do a bank job. No visible flesh. Hidden under thermals, ski socks, scarves and balaclavas. Thick mitts and hand warmers. We drove off into the north easterly and the flag beckoned in the distance.

I suggested where to place tee shots. The angle to attack the green. The basic rules of match play. The ebb and flow of the game. Attack, defend, consolidate. To be positive and not dwell on negatives. The message got lost in translation. They found bunkers, trees and rough. They might have had more success landing a harrier on an aircraft carrier in a force eight. They shanked. They topped. They played air shots. They were ladies who lunched. Ladies who golfed. They sipped their skinny lattes in between having their hair and nails done. I doubt they knew there was a practice ground or had seen a range token. They were not ladies who would eagle the eighth at Pebble Beach. After four holes the light was beginning to go and there was the scent of snow on the wind. I regretted taking the call.

By the ninth hole, I had lost the will to live. As we walked from the ninth to the tenth we had to cross a stream. There was a bridge crossing a stream. I took the bridge. They took the short cut. I saw one of them slip on the undergrowth. Heard the scream, saw the splash. It was not a deep stream. I carried on walking. It was not my problem and my hands were cold as ice. Somewhere above the tree line, divine retribution was waiting in store.

“Let’s go a bit faster. You’ll soon get warm” I said.

The wind dropped and we played under the snow laden sky. A formation of geese flew overhead and moorhens sought the rushes at the margins of the lake. We plodded on around the course. I imparted words of wisdom where I saw fit and longed for the clubhouse.

The fifteenth fairway is guarded by two big oak trees. I took the driver out of the bag and the shot sailed between the oaks. Majestic. I gently replaced the head cover on the driver and put it back in the bag as the first flakes began to fall.

“Well done, my friend” I whispered. The ladies who golfed got ready to tee off. The wetter one went first.

“You need to go left here” I said. They went right. Short and right.

I had a five wood to the green. Uphill with a left to right slope on the green. I brushed the flakes off the clubface and lined up the shot. The shot was good but the follow through felt wrong. The wrong bit was catching the five wood on my follow through. Through the silence of the snow flakes, I heard the noise. It sounded like someone had snapped their tibia in a tackle. It made me think afterwards of the noise when the marksman shot Bambi’s mother. I looked at my bag. The head cover of the driver hung at an odd angle. The head had snapped off the shaft. The sum of the parts was now in bits. My new driver. The one I had hidden in the wardrobe. My fish to the chips. My strawberries to the cream. Sniper was gone. I didn’t play out the hole. I carried his broken head. I carried him like you would carry a dead puppy and we finished the last holes in the silence of the flakes. When we turned round the course had disappeared. Wrapped in white. We said our farewells.

“I have got an old driver in the garage” said the dry lady.

I laid Sniper on the back seat with his broken shaft and drove slowly home.

“Did you have a good day?” said the Golf Police.

I thought about the icy wind and the long round. The words of wisdom and the fall in the stream. I thought about the fifteenth and the shot with the five wood to the green. I could still hear the sound as the driver head was severed from the shaft. I remembered the long walk as I carried Sniper for the last three holes. The weight of his broken head and the carbon fibre fragments on his spine.

“No, not really” I said and left it at that.

I now use a three wood off the tee. The insurance paid out for another driver but it was never the same. I have bought and traded several drivers since the accident. Read the blurb and bought the Big Stick. But for me, there was only ever one. I still look in odd bins and on Ebay but we had something you maybe only find once in a lifetime. And in moment of carelessness, I lost it on a snowy fairway.

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