GOLF, BUBBLE BATHS AND TOM WOLFE

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This morning dawned cold and windy. Bright sunshine to lure you outside and a wind chill well below zero to immediately disappoint you. Did this stop me from playing golf? Heck no.

Late fall and winter golf is a tricky sport in a cold climate like Ontario. Taking too deep a divot is akin to grabbing on to a hornet’s nest with your bare hands. Hitting a high approach shot on to a frozen green and expecting it to stop (or, Heaven forbid, spin back) is reserved for those who think it’s possible to throw a marble on to an concrete sidewalk and expect it to come to rest within a foot. Balls roll forever on fairways and stop dead in the frozen rough where they resist every effort to move them forward with even the mightiest iron shot. Putting across greens covered with leaves is best accomplished if you are very familiar with the chaos factor.

After 2 hours in the deepfreeze, I retired home cold, stiff and suffering from a long-standing minor medical condition who’s symptons I dare not describe here for fear that the ladies swoon and the gentlemen respond with an indignant harrummph. Only one cure for this – a bubble bath. Yes, you heard me right – a bubble bath. Hot and steaming, fragrant and perfect. I am man enough to speak of this pleasure. Of course, the chemical concoction used to create this paradise is euphemistically called “foaming bath”. Sounds like something coined by a “Metrosexual”, a term that I hate. It sounds like something Tom Wolfe would dream up in one of his later self-possessed novels that all have plots that go “I’m smarter and wittier than you and for the next 700 pages, I intend to prove it”. You put in the bath and it produces bubbles. Not foam, bubbles.

So hear I sit clean, dry and comfortable. And totally secure in my masculinity thank you very much.