SIDCUP,  KENT

AUGUST 13 2008

Testing the air with the index finger of his left hand,   Tiff deduced that the South Westerly wind was not blowing at anything near a pace capable of unsettling a firmly tapped putt.

Tension filled the air as the three players from the two teams,  stood in the background,  Marcie and Sherri nervously chewing on bitten down to the quick nails,  and sighing with expectation.  Bill stood firm,  awaiting the swet taste of the winning putt,  and the lure of such big prize money.     It was the moment of truth as Tiff carefully cleaned away a tiny brown leaf and placed the ball on the marker he had left.  Bending down,  he sized up the hole,  closing one eye and mathematically pondering,  he estimated a distance of nine and a half feet to certain victory in this keenly fought and tightly scored match.

The onlookers now silenced,  concentration high,  sweating palm weeping into a single,  slightly grass soiled white glove as the ping of contact echoed against the surrounding foliage,  the distance between putter and ball increasing with the swing and decreasing as the ball scurried on it's way, like some demented beetle.

Slow motion frames,    hearts pumping,  a tradjectory planned and followed so completely with the hole in sight.  Moving in to kiss the hole and drop neatly with a clonk,  the ball followed it's irrisistable conclusion towards the desired destination as Tiff began to place his club in the air by means of a victory celebration.

A sudden scream,  and laughter as,  turning,  Tiff fell to his knees in despair,  as a lonesome squirrel darted across the pitch and putt course like an exocet missile and grappled with the ball,  twisting and turning in a spiralling mas of mischievous fur,  until both he and the spherical object of desire both went their separate ways,  the ball heading back towards Bill,   standing disconsolately by the girls,  and pondering on how close his team mate had come to winning that crisp ten pound note!

Marcie and Sherri let out celebration screams,  hands clapping fast enough to light a fire,  handbags waving wildly in the air as they hugged and kissed joyfully,  having beaten the boys on the very last hole.  The series now completed with a two to one ratio in favour of the fairer sex.

Bill pulled out his wallet and reluctantly handed over the grubbiest brown note he could find in his neat black leather wallet,  safely into the beckoning hand of Marcie,  who twirled with delight and shouted,    "The drinks are on us,  boys.  Yey,  for the girls!  "

Later that night in the 'Fox & Vixen',   talk was on the why's and wherefores,  the might have beens and maybe's,  and that little furry rodent responsible for providing the entertainment and talking point of a fun day out.