Thursday, October 15, 2020


Some creatures really don't like heat. Crabs. UPS drivers. Teabags. Ancient Dutchmen in San Francisco. Yesterday it hit eighty eight degrees in late afternoon, and consequently I had the worst night's sleep that I can remember. It is presently 86° here, and I will shortly head out to front steps with a pipe to await the UPS driver with my delivery.

The next person to say "such lovely weather we're having" may get clobbered. If sufficient energy can be built up. Just wait a day or two, and when I see you again, provided it is cooler, I'll hit you.


There ought to be a law against such temperatures. Expect another strongly worded letter to the editor.

Lizards, of course, love weather like this. There they are, gaily disporting themselves in the tall wet grasses, looking for their golfballs and smoking their cigars with their friends, or playing tennis and exclaiming "jolly good show old man, oh well done", for all the world showing off how damned miserably comfortable they are. The odious beasts.

This blogger, as you might expect, hates golf in the United States.

The game is supposed to be played in inclement weather, in a colder climate, by people dressed in woolens being rained on. Or sheltering from the downpour in a copse of trees or a hutment beyond the fifteenth green because otherwise they can't keep their pipes lit.

And cursing both the American businessmen AND the doctors' wives who insist that they too need to play. They are all in the clubhouse having gin and sherry and waiting for the rain to end, which explains why you're out here. Can't smoke in the clubhouse anymore, neither the American businessmen nor the doctors wives will shut the hell up, they're getting quite swozzled, and it's not teatime

yet, so a civilized refreshment cannot be had.

Well, at least the tin of flake is dry.
A pipe with no one else around is a slice of heaven.
Even if you are limp from the heat.
Astley's No. 109.


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1 comment:

Nelle Keane said...

Golf in the United States is an abomination. Really, golf anywhere but the Old Course at St. Andrews is an abomination. No one understands that game quite like foul-mouthed Scotsmen.

I certainly don't, being only a foul-mouthed American descended from hard-bitten Scots who found Appalachia a more mild in climate, if no less hardscrabble, substitute for the wilds of northeast Scotland. Besides, golf in Appalachia is not considered a sport. Racing souped-up cars originally intended to outrun lawmen hot to arrest purveyors of illicit whiskey is far more popular.

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