The Last Round

A laugh of surprised triumph escapes my lips as the ball soars into the sky then falls to exactly the right spot on the manicured greens. I stand there for a moment, the wood still resting on my left shoulder, admiring my unexpected handiwork. It’s been years since I’ve been on a golf course and I certainly hadn’t expected to send the ball straight down the middle from the very first tee-off. 

“Looks like I’ve still got it."

I look around the calm greens of Eight Elms golf course, embarrassed that someone might catch me talking to myself as I play my solitary round. I shrug my shoulders and smile, grateful that at 5 o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, most regulars were still chained to their desks or running those never-ending errands on their To Do lists. 

I’m alone – almost. A woman stands at the edge of a small thicket, hacking away at the undergrowth. She’s dressed like Central Casting’s idea of a lady golfer from another age, in tweed plus-fours, leather brogues and a pink and yellow sweater. Makes me feel an imposter in my Mum jeans and sweatshirt, like an uninvited guest at a society party. I wave hello, but she’s too intent on getting her ball out of the rough to notice me. 

I slide the heavy club back into the battered leather bag and shoulder it, ready to walk up the greens and take my next shot. It’s much weightier than Bill’s new bag filled with fancy carbon fibre clubs, but I enjoy the heft of history that almost a century gives mine. What stories of past glories would it tell if it could speak? 

A breeze tickles the nape of my neck and the low autumn sun warms my cheeks. Somewhere, a dog barks and a pair of rooks take off from the branches of a dead oak. All around, trees are changing colour for their last flamboyant shout-out before they drop their leaves for winter. A whiff of bonfire floats in the air, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. 

I feel good. Alive. More than I have in an age.

“Beats online shopping any day.” I’ve spent too many empty hours trawling the bargain sites since Mark left for college, trying to fill the void he left. But that’s what’s landed me here, playing the best game of golf of my life on a glorious late October day, with no-one to cheer me on. 

I’d been thrilled with my latest find. The 1920s golf bag was offered free to anyone willing to pick up. I clicked without hesitation and collected it that same day from a sullen old man in a neglected house on the edge of town. At best, I’d clean it up and sell to some hipster vintage-hound for a tidy profit. At worst, it would become a conversation piece to fill the corner of the living room where Mark’s guitar once stood. 

But, as it turned out, it got me back on the links. Reawakened my love for the game that brought me and Bill together, before marriage, motherhood and the menopause got in the way. I gave up years ago, when Mark was just an overgrown jelly bean in my belly wriggling to be born. Bill carried on, of course, never missing his weekend round while I took care of chores or chauffeur duties for music lessons, football practice and play dates. Who knew that I would still know how to handle the woods, irons and putters after all this time? Next time Bill heads for the greens, I’ll grab the old leather bag and join him for a game.

A few satisfying slices take me within feet of the first hole, and I nudge the ball in with a neat, satisfying plop. After the next five holes, I feel better about myself than I have for a long, long time.

A movement in the bushes catches my eye as I sink the ball at the sixth. It’s Madam Plus Fours again. She’s got company now. Her bag is propped up against the trunk of a tree, and there’s the shape of a man in the shadows. Alright for some. Others have to caddy their own clubs round the course.

I pick up my bag. There’s a dark stain at the bottom I hadn’t seen before. I hope it's just the turf's evening damp leaving its print on the leather and make a mental note to give it another rub down with saddle soap when I get home. I look up to watch the woman and her caddy as they head to the next green - but they’re nowhere to be seen.

I spot them again at the eleventh hole. The man is silhouetted against the pinkening sky. I can’t make out his features. He’s much closer to the woman now, holding one of her clubs. They're arguing, but I only hear notes of anger pricked with pleading through the evening air. 

Probably some petty argument about which club to pick for her next shot. Some people really need to lighten up. It’s just a game, after all.

It’ll be dark soon. Better finish my round. The stain on the bag looks bigger now. Probably a trick of the light - dusk has a habit of throwing up visions of things that aren’t there in the sharp glare of morning. 

Shadows like skinny giants loll against the landscape as I reach the sixteenth hole. I’ve played the best round of my life and I’ll definitely be back tomorrow. 

But in the morning. The evenings are drawing in way too fast now. 

Right now, I just want to reach the eighteenth hole and get back to my car. There’s something about the rustle of the leaves in the dark that sends chills down my spine.

The garish diamonds of Madam Plus Fours' sweater glow ahead of me through the growing gloom. She and her caddy are leaving the seventeenth hole and she’s gesticulating wildly, shouting at her dark companion. What a bitch, blaming the poor caddy for her bad game. He still has her bag on his shoulder and a club in his hand, waiting for her to finish her tirade, get it all out of her system. Poor guy, I bet he can’t wait to see her finish her round, get paid (no tip, for sure) and wind down with a drink at the bar. 

I tee up for the last hole, look up to see where I’m aiming for, and drop my wood in shock.

The caddy is holding the club over his head, threatening the woman. In a panic, I stumble and knock over my bag. The dark stain spread all the way along one side.

Gotta do something, Stop him, Help her. 

The lights of the club house twinkle invitingly, but the eighteenth hole is closer. I scramble to my feet, yelling. Maybe the commotion will scare him off.

I’m running as fast as my middle-aged legs can take me. Panting hard and looking down for fear of tripping on something. Blood pumps in my ears. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. Red starbursts play at the edges of my vision. 

The dark and my panic are playing tricks with me. The denim on my pumping knees looks like tweed, and they seem to have bunched up mid-calf. 

Keep going. Stop him. 

I reach the green and stop, facing the dark figure wielding the club. 

“Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”

He looks at me, smiles and he steps towards me. I turn to tell the woman to run. She’s gone. Already on her way to get help, I pray.

It’s just me and the caddy. I’m exhausted. Frozen with fear. Menace flows off him like sweat. With every step he takes, a little piece of my sanity deserts me. 

Just two paces away from me now, I see his face. 

It’s Bill. My Bill. The man I’ve shared the past twenty years with. The man I lost somewhere along the way. The man I wanted to get back out onto the greens again. But it’s not my Bill leering down at me. It’s a warped version of his slightly flabby, once-handsome face. Twisted with malice, intent on harm. 

He raises the club. It’s one of the heavy vintage woods from my bag, which is now lying on its side next to the last hole. Clubs, tees and other paraphernalia have spilled out in a growing pool of dark liquid. 

I raise my arm to cover my face. In a surreal split second, puzzlement banishes panic as I see that, instead of the deep red of my sweatshirt, my sleeve is clad in pink and yellow diamonds. 

My world explodes, and everything goes black.

Read all about it!

Read all about it, the headline news.

The latest gossip, we aim to amuse.
Who’s dating who, who’s got fat,
On the screen right where you’re sat.

Just what you want, no need to think.
Coming at you now. Please don’t blink.
Headline news to keep you at bay
Ask no questions, or stay away.

Tabloid dreams in electric ink.
Cartoon clichés that don’t make the link
Between them and us.
Not really human, why make a fuss?

Words as weapons to stir up hate.
Pull at your emotions to agitate
tension and serve their agenda.
Reject it, wrap it up, return to sender.

Divide and conquer, or unite and thrive?
Choose what makes you feel alive.
Despise your neighbour, swallow the lie,
Got to save your slice of the pie.

So, go on, paper your fort with pages
that proclaim the “other” your enemy of ages.
Ignore what you can’t accept is true,
that to some, the “other” is you.

Unlucky in love

“Life is like a box of chocolates.” Is that really what your mama told you, Forrest, me old mate?

Well, I’ll tell you something. I’d trade this whole Deluxe Selection box – even if it was filled to the brim with my favourite Hazelnut Caramel Crunch Clusters – for a little bit of the old rumpty-pumpty.  

Speaking of hazelnut clusters, don’t mind if I do…   Hmmm. Lubbly, jubbly.

It’s not easy being me, you know. One look and everyone assumes I’ve got the whole romance deal sorted. The rosy, chubby cheeks. The bouncy blonde curls. My wide-eyed innocent gaze to the heavens. The half-arsed bow and arrow. Even those stupid lumps of feather flapping about on my shoulders (as if a pair of pigeon wings could lift my un-birdlike frame).

I know how you all see me. How you imagine I spend my days. You’ve got this image of me flitting from cloud to cloud, shooting darts of romance here and there, infecting the unsuspecting with love (with a capital L) and chucking hearts, flowers and rainbows around like nobody’s business.

You know, the whole vomit-inducing shebang. 

Guilty as charged. 

But did any of you ever stop to wonder if good ole Cupid ever found love, had someone warm and welcoming to go home to at the end of a long day? No, of course you didn’t. Not a single one of you ever gave a thought to the state of my poor, bleeding, unrequited heart.

Yuck, Strawberry Dream. Not my favourite. Too mushy by far. Any of you fancy it?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. The bitter sweet irony of the God of Love never having got his end away.

Yes, you heard me right. Never. Not once. Not even close. Since ancient times - and I mean real ancient times. Romans and Greeks, togas and intrigues, and the like.

So, next time you’re crying into your beer ‘cos Little Miss Sharon McTottie won’t look your way, instead of chucking a few choice swear words in my direction, stop to consider what it’s like to be an eternal virgin whose day job is all about connecting people to do the horizontal samba. 

Thing is, no-one really goes for the cherubic look, do they? These big baby-blue eyes and pouting lips may make broody wannabe mums swoon and croon over pushchairs, but when it comes to the business of getting the kid implanted, forget it. No way, Jose. 

They want butch, macho or, at the very least, darkly sardonic. Not an easy ask when you look like this.

So, there you go. Chaste and untouched for millenia. Not by choice, in case you missed my hint. 

Now, what’s this one. Espresso Delite (American spelling if you please). Could be good. Let’s see. Just a little bite to try….  ….oh no, no, no.

Too bitter for me by far, thanks to thirty years living over a Billericay café where the tea's fit for builders but the coffee's not much more than dirty water.

Funny thing is, lately, I have been feeling a little bit dark and sardonic now and then. It might just be my imagination, but I could swear that there’s a touch of Roger the gargoyle rubbing off on me. 

Roger? Oh, you don’t know him? 

Seriously, you didn’t think I was the only random mythical creature walking the streets with you humans, did you? There’s loads of us, everywhere you look. Vampires, warlocks, goblins, the occasional ogre, elves, not to mention naiads and dryads searching for their spirit streams and home trees that were cemented over years ago. 

People used to notice us, steer clear, shake pitchforks, light torches and chuck the occasional cup of Holy water in our direction. These days, they don’t bat an eyelid. I’m not surprised really – these days most ‘ordinary’ people are scarier than a legion of demons.

Me and Rog have been hanging out a lot lately. Bit of an odd couple. Him all dark, charred and leathery. Me, well… you know. This. But we get on well enough, and he does make me look cool.

I’ve been teaching him the words to Celine Dion’s entire back catalogue. And he’s helping with my Alice Cooper and Ozzy impersonations. All good clean fun. Unfortunately.

But I’ve noticed something. I’ve started feeling a bit… how can I say it?...  different. My toenails are getting longer and tougher, my feet are getting bonier, like claws. My cheeks are sinking, right down to the bone structure I never knew I had. And I swear I saw a dark red glint in one eye when I looked in the mirror the other day.

Roger says I’m imagining it. I’m just seeing what I admire in him in myself. Sort of wishful thinking. Arrogant git. 

I mean, would I really want to look like a hobgoblin on speed after a week of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll? 

…Too bloody right I would.

Like we said, no-one wants to shag the fat roadie with a face like the Gerber baby. 

Pineapple crème. I’ll save that for Roger. He has the weirdest tastes for a gargoyle. There must be a Walnut Whirl somewhere in here for me. 

So, like I was saying. After all these centuries I can feel something stirring, changing, solidifying. And no…  …it’s not “that”. Not yet, at least.

I don’t think I’m the only one to notice. I got a look today from the girl with the nose ring in the café. Not the usual can-I-pour-my-heart-out-about-my-pig-of-a-boyfriend-before-leaping-back-into-his-bed look, but something that might – just might – hold a hint of an invitation to join her in the sheets myself.

At first, I thought it was for Roger. But no, it was definitely me Tanith stared at for just a little bit longer than necessary when taking the same order I give her every day. I ran a cocky hand through my hair, smoothing it down against my scalp instead of letting the ringlets spring like a halo, as I murmured “One tea and an Eccles cake, please darling”.

When she came back, she gave me two Eccles cakes and an encouraging wink. 

Is that a Rum and Raisin Swirl I see hiding there in the corner? Not any more. There you go. Very nice.

The only downside is the smell. It simply won’t go away. Again, I thought it was Rog, but his usual air of brimstone seemed to linger much longer than it should after he’d left for his weekly meeting with the Dark Overlord yesterday.  

I shower, scrub myself in all those important little places (especially now that I’m getting those signals from Tanith), but when I raise my arms to check my pits, I’m still getting a whiff of sulphur oozing out of me like lava. 

If I’m honest, I secretly relish it. It’s much cooler than the cloud of baby powder that used to follow me everywhere.

So, yes. I’m changing. A kind of ridiculously overdue puberty is transforming me. At long bloody last. 

I can hardly wait. I go to sleep, excited to see what new transformation awaits me when I wake. I walk down the street with a new purposeful stride, Queen’s ‘Find me somebody to love’ pulsing through my head at full volume. My wings have folded flat against my shoulder blades and I think the feathers have all dropped out. 

I can’t remember the last time I saw my bow, let alone shot one of the arrows. The world doesn’t seem to notice. Carries on. Maybe it just doesn’t need me anymore?

I reckon Roger took the arrows. I saw him messing with them over his coffee. Could be he’s already handed them over and sent them to the depths of Hades? Or not. Who knows? Who cares?

Just a few chocs in the box now. I should have saved the bottom layer for Tanith, now that I know I might be in with a chance. But I can always buy a fresh box in the morning, can’t I?
I wonder what that one is? Don’t think I’ve seen it before. Small, round and very dark.
Probably some fancy super-pure Peruvian cocoa…  Let’s see…  …Nope. Not cocoa at all. Small, hard, vaguely smokey. A lump of rock charred at the edges, fizzing slightly at its centre. Surprisingly tasty.

Yep. I’m changing. And fast. My time has finally come. Tanith is giving me that special smile and nodding towards the side door. I’ve waited long enough.

Question is, can you lot handle my metamorphosis? Are you ready for a world without love? 

Suck it and see.