Haron and I spent a lovely week in Scotland on holiday last month. Neither of us plays golf, but we holed up in a resort that’s next to a very famous course. Needless to say, we were tempted out onto the putting green in front of the hotel.

I won. The margin of victory? Yep, you guessed it: six strokes. I’m not sure the hotel management are that used, however, to the victor collecting his winnings by bending his wife over next to the eighteenth hole for the necessary number of whacks with a golf club.

(Me? With my reputation? In a hotel whose female staff all wear kilts? Scarcely a moment passed without reveries of their predecessors being tawsed, in presumably stricter times when the hotel opened 100 or so years ago).

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