A Cool Sunday Morning
By Louisa. November 2005.

At 4:30am he was still asleep in bed while I'd snuck out the front door, no mean feat with my golf bag slung over my back. I headed out to the car and gently snapped the lid of the boot open, laying theheavy clubs neatly in the rear of the Kingswood. Then as quietly as I never thought a V8 weighing about 1.5 tonnes could be, I pulled smoothly out of the driveway and headed for the local golf course on this cool Sunday morning.

By the time I got out onto the course, the sun was up shining it's misty rays through the light gray clouds that the weatherman had predicted last night. Cool, overcast, little chance of rain. This is how I like my golf: no chance of sweltering in the heat while you trek for kilometers after a tiny white ball. No, it's these moments, when the dew has settled on the freshly cut grass, there's a light mist hanging over the bunkers and not another golfer in sight. This course is mine for at least another two hours, I don't even have to share it with my husband.

You see our usual golfing afternoons; not so much fun. I do love Greg, really I do. But he has a definite competitive edge to him, and frankly it takes all the fun out of the game for me. I mean really, a sport that's all about going for a nice walk in the nature, feeling the wind, predicting the fall of the ball on the earth.... This is not a game to argue over, these are moments to cherish, sense the soft fall of the ball close the green, watch the flag turn as the wind moves favourably for your final putt, even the sweet shot that gets you out of a tricky bunker without landing in the rough... It's all magical, the game is about you and the ball, not you and the man who gave you a sparkly diamond ring 15 years ago who still can't manage to crack open a beer without leaving a bottle cap hidden somewhere under the couch, or in the dogs bed, or laid precariously on the edge of the sink, instead of... you know... in the bin where it belongs.

The birds are beginning to wake now as I head down to the fourth hole, it's amazing how much faster the game moves when you play like this on your own, at this rate I'll probably be at the 6th hole before the regulars come in to the club for their Sunday morning constitutional. I hear a Magpie chirping or warbling or whatever it is Magpies do, he's quite an insistent one, and quite close. Most of the cacophonous clatter I hear is coming from down towards the creek, we've seen alot of Rosellas and Mynah birds over there and up at the club theres a gang of Cockys that like to get stuck in to the bins. This is as much their home as ours, more so really. It's one of the reasons we joined this club, all of the trees are natives, and when it's spring time - which it is now - all the Bottlebrushes and Wattles are in full bloom and especially on a cool morning like this you can smell the gumnuts in the air, I'll have to remember to take some home with me.

By the time I'm at the 6th hole and i can hear the distant murmurings of the club members as they head out onto the course, I also feel a something cold on my forearm, i wipe it away while I push up the sleeves of my cardigan, they're a little too lose, so it becomes a habit every time I take a shot to push up the sleeves. It annoys Greg, he says I could wear something more practical, but this is the only cardigan I have that is soft and warm, plus I feel more secure on the course wearing something bright red, less like I'm going to get knocked out by a stray ball from a half-blind retiree. It's silly I know, but the truth is I wear this cardigan all the time and the impracticality of loose sleeves aren't going to stop me from taking it out on the course. Another splash hits my face this time and I can no longer stave off the suspicion I'd had. It's spitting. I debate whether I'll have time to fetch my ball and get up to the club before it turns torrential. The flat grey sky above me has developed an ominous dark spot that seems headed right for me, but I decide leaving my ball would only nag at me for the rest of the day.

It's when I'm heading back to the club that it comes down in buckets, I can hear the birds screeching away as they make their escape flight. Up at the club I hear some of the smaller starlings and sparrows have taken shelter under the rafters along with the golfers who didn't quite get out onto the course. They're inside in the warm lounge pontificating with eachother about the questionable lineage of weather men. I head to the cafeteria not really in the mood to hear their griping after such a lovely morning. I drip all over the counter, while the waitress takes her time to amble out from the kitchen, then take my order. I head across to the large windows and choose a small table, taking off my dripping cardigan and resting it on the back ofthe chair. Once I'm sitting I can see the sun trying to breakthrough the foreboding clouds, the rain falls in great splats and the leaves of the eucalyptus outside are glistening and wet as they are drummed by hefty raindrops. I can just about smell them and realise I forgot to collect some gumnuts on my way up. As I start to dry off he waitress brings my cherry pie with a side of whipped cream and hot tea with milk and sugar. It's still only 9:30 Greg is probably just waking up now. I think I'll stay here a little while longer and enjoy my hot pie before I head home.