Round 12.

12.

There’s a guy – I can’t remember his name right now, let’s call him Fred; his real name will come to me whilst I write.

We worked together at the factory before the management and economies decided to lay off more than half the staff, I’m not sure if Fred survived the cut; he was a specialist – an expert in super conductors or coolants or something, but he was old enough to take an early retirement and the offer would have been attractive.

I was employed elsewhere so it mattered less.

Apart from super-somethings Fred loved all things Scottish – he was planning a visit that summer with his wife – and so we were talking about Mike Leigh’s film The Angel Share.

And that took us on to golf.

Fred asked me if I knew the origin of the word.

“Golf?”

“Yes.”

“No”.

So Fred told me, that above the club entrance at St Andrew’s there is a sign that says Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden.

“Are you sure?”

“0ui!”

Fred is French.

Driving home I wondered about this, something didn’t ring true. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that if there was a club-house there must have already been a game.

Maybe it had something to do with Fred being French and me thinking that I – an Englishman – should know more about my own language than a Frenchman.

By the way  - another Frenchman whose name I can’t remember – told me he had learnt some new vocabulary.

“Oh yes, what is it?”

“Brexit.”

Ho ho ho.

Christmas has of course slipped past, the New Year has installed and I’m driving around thinking about the past and the future.

And I’m thinking about belief and ……

Little kids believe in Father Christmas.

They believe in Fairies.

Elves too maybe.

Dragons?

Probably.

All these things exist.

How does it happen?

Are they born with these beliefs?

Sometimes maybe – but a lot of is down to stories.

The stories we tell.

And the stories we write.

These stories are like this because the writers want the world to be like this.

So they create one.

And other people agree.

They live the story too and the story becomes real.

…..Something like this.

It’s exhausting.

When I got home after working with Fred, whose name I still haven’t remembered, I was exhausted, 

it had been a long day.

But before I lay down to sleep I did a bit of research on golf.

A couple of weeks after I met Fred again.

“Hey, you remember that story you told me about golf?”

“Fred smiled.

“Yes, I do.”

We had been looking at short form answers.

“Well, I did some research and it seems that the story is completely untrue.”.

His eyes twinkled.

“Yes, but it’s a good story.”

Sorry, I still can’t remember his name.

  (ALL ABOUT ROUNDS)