I’m just back from a bucket and spade holiday in the sunshine. I just about kicked the bucket gasping at the cost and will probably need the spade to dig myself out of the ensuing debt.

Interestingly, I have a vague recollection that I first met the woman who would become my wife in a travel agent’s shop when browsing the holiday options a number of years ago. Well, I think that's where it was, because even now she keeps muttering something about me being the last resort.

Anyway, it was nice to get away to recharge the few remaining batteries that still have a little dollop of oomph left in them.

Slumped on a deck chair with a knotted handkerchief on my head, I passed the time by reading some of the old golfing pearls penned by the celebrated wordsmith of yore, Bernard Darwin.

“I have for some years earned a precarious living by writing golf articles with as low a percentage of golf in them as possible,” scribbled Bernard back in ye day. The likeness with your Tuesday columnist is quite uncanny, isn’t it?

I suppose I’d better start writing about some golf now, eh? It’s Masters week, that time of the year when spring is in the air and even golfers of unfailing wretchedness have their spirits roused and senses stirred.

Of course, the conditions here in the........

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