After a draining day at work, when I got home last night I had nothing to kick or vent my frustration on. There is no dog in our house, despite my canine-loving-other-half's wishes, so I suggested we both go to the driving range at the Bermuda Golf Academy
and smack a few balls instead.
So we did, and when we got there unbeknown to us it had the added bonus of having an Indian restaurant on site too. Fan-bloody-tastic. We preceeded to hit our way through a bucket of balls but I was becoming more and more conscious of the three people next to me swinging wildly and missing and when they did connect pinging the ball low and at severe angles.
Sure enough, the woman lets out a mighty scream and collapses to the ground holding her head while one of the blokes stands over her with his golf club in hand looking remorseful. Claret everywhere and I rush off to get the owner and call an ambulance. "Happens all the time,"
said the owner. We hit our last few balls and headed off past the fire engine that doubles as an ambulance with the smell of curry in our noses. "Shall we?"
Oh yes, a chicken dansak and a few Kingfishers and the world was a better place.