(Untitled) by Len Nourse

A mate who lived just across the Oval from me stopped, hooted and shouted, see you at the club for nine holes. A beer later we were on our way. Ted, a quick tempered yuppie millionaire, was a perfectionist, his business and its success was proof. His first drive was a long pull and out of bounds. His driver followed suit and snapped by overhanging branches. The muttered $#@&Shit told me what to expect, he fuming until we reached the 9th. There wasn’t a club left in his tattered bag, his shoes alone told the story. The 10th was the pub and Ted, amid laughter, bought drinks until midnight.

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