21 July 2001
After a thoroughly satisfying pub lunch, Pixie pulled out her Coolpix and started setting up various "still life" tabletop pictures. Her sister and I turned our attentions to the golf as Colin Montgomerie (who needs a better bra) and Tiger Woods thrashed their way around the course.
A gentleman I could only describe as "portly", like Gilbert from A Doll's House, in a white cardigan with tinted glasses, paused beside our table and put a hand on the free seat. "Is this seat taken?" he asked.
I wish he'd asked if it was busy. I have a fantastic comeback line from Denis Leary for "Is this seat busy?" but when do fantastic comebacks ever get the set-up they deserve?
"No, go right ahead" I said and the man walked away. I wondered if he'd misheard me and decided that he'd probably noticed another table open up or a stool at the bar had become available.
Turning my attention back to the golf, Tiger had landed deep into the rough somehow and now it was getting interesting.
plunk plunk
A pint of bitter and a high-ball of scotch were placed on the table and the portly old man sat down beside me. Was I supposed to protest? Was I supposed to revoke the availability of the seat? I looked at Pixie and she was still absorbed in the bubbles of her Diet Coke, trying to get funny patterns captured on digital film. Her sister had noticed but was pretending to ignore the guy.
"Ever played golf?"
"Uh... no, not really."
"Builds character. What's the score at the moment?"
Ah-ha. I had seen the score moments ago and said with some knowledge, "Montgomerie's seven under and Tiger's five under par. Not sure about the others."
He nodded approvingly as though these were good scores. In my experience negative scores are to be avoided at all costs, but what the hey.
"I never met a Spaniard with enough patience to play the game."
It was not the sort of comment that needed an answer from me.
Tiger was being escorted back to where he had originaly taken his shot in the rough by a WPC, I had missed why. The female police officer was in black trousers and white shirt, standard uniform, radio on hip. I imagine he was having to take his shot again and the WPC was simply making sure he wasn't mobbed or attacked by members of the crowd.
The old gentleman took a sip from one glass then another, placed them on the table, leaned back and quite plainly said;
"The camera doesn't do much for her arse, does it."
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