November 11th 2018
Today was what I frequently like to call “A Perfect Sunday”. A perfect Sunday consists of three simple things, each with their own stipulations:
- A cooked breakfast
- A round of golf
- A roast dinner
Now, if the relative quality of each of those three events summates to an adequate total, then a Sunday can be described as ‘perfect’. My mother delivered with full force on points one and three, but number two was all my doing.
I did kind of have to talk her into making me bacon and egg sandwiches before I left for golf, but she smashed it, naturally.
I played a brand new golf course today, and the first time you play a course is always quite treacherous, because you don’t know what your next shot is going to be, and you don’t know how the greens will react, and you don’t know the blind spots, et cetera. Whenever I play a round of golf I always aim for a score of +18, and today — the first time I’ve played this course — that was exactly what I shot, so I was happy with that. It was a nice course, too.
Alongside the quality of the course and the quality of my game, a ‘perfect’ golf game is defined by the weather and, ignoring one five-minute flash of rain on the fifteenth, the weather was ideal for golf.
And, after eighteen holes of beautiful golf, I came home to a beautiful roast dinner. Shoutout my Mum. The stipulation on the roast dinner part of the perfect trifecta is that it has to be cooked by my Mum. I was invited for a pub carvery and, as nice as that would’ve been, it could not be counted towards a perfect Sunday. It would be a very good Sunday, but less than perfect.
Until tomorrow, we completed the trifecta.