Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Golf in the night.

The dog starts to bark at the beginning of a day.
Too early. It's only one hour into the day.
I pad to a window and stare down at my back garden where a man is searching for something on my property.
I open the window and ask, not unkindly, what he wants at one o'clock in the morning?

The midnight golfer
He says he is seeking a lost golf ball.
My garden wall borders a large open space that is covered in grass.
He has been practicing his golf, I am sure of it, for he has a golf club in his hand.
His aimless hacking at my flower bed with the club is not unlike a hungry Antarctic explorer intent on breaking ice to seek for fish to eat.
He is also drunk, I realise as I appear on the ground floor and, soon after, in the garden.
I see he is a neighbour from up the road.
I escort him back through the open gate and lock it after him.
I assure him I will find that ball, and keep it safe, until he calls again.
However, the dog, who comes from a long line of gun dogs, is now chewing experimental lumps out of the found ball.
I go back to bed and wonder how long before dawn appears over the horizon.
And if any of this will seem different then.
Storytelling here

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