Health & safety and buggy insurance
SO, another county championships has come and gone and what have I got to show for it? Nothing! Actually, that’s not entirely true. I have come away with a new nickname this year, but more of that later.
The county championships are always held in the first week of May, which I usually find far too early in the season and am totally unprepared for them, having skied until the last moment, and having not played a full 18 holes for six months, never mind 36 for potentially three days running.
Surprisingly, therefore, given my lack of preparation, I have a pretty decent track record in the event, having been in the semi-finals five times, and the final twice – losing on the 18th both times. So, this time, I decided I would put the work in beforehand (and even went skiing earlier!) to give myself time to practise, and to see if I could come away with the spoils.
For the first time ever, I went into the championships playing well, and feeling pretty confident. And where did it get me? Absolutely nowhere! I qualified easily enough for the second day after 36 holes in gale-force winds, and then it all came to a glorious, ignominious end. For only the second time in my life I lost in the first round. It wasn’t even that I played badly. I had four birdies – three of which were in my last eight holes – and was two under for the back nine. And I still lost. It’s enough to make you want to take it out on a small child! I just need to borrow one from somewhere.
So, if that wasn’t bad enough, I also earned the new title, ‘Madge.’ I always consider Lady Golfer readers to be a higher class, more discerning type of reader than your average golf magazine clientele, so I am sure most of you will never have lowered yourselves to watch a programme called Benidorm. Thus, you will be oblivious to who Madge is. Therefore, if I tell you she is an 80-year-old, dark brown, wrinkled, chain-smoking prune, the comparison between us may not be immediately obvious. However, she also rides round on a red mobility scooter – and this was my undoing.
It is Sod’s Law that the first time I apply to use a buggy in the championships, they are held at the only course in the country (if not the world) which doesn’t have any buggies because of – wait for it – health and safety! Don’t you just love it? This is because during the course of a round, you have to cross a road twice. When I say a road, we are not talking the M6 here.
It is a quiet country lane out in the depths of nowhere, and I am pretty sure that even from a standing start, I could cross that strip of tarmac in a buggy three times as fast as someone pulling a trolley – which would give me more than enough time to avoid any horse-drawn caravan coming down the lane!
However, rules are rules, so I was reliant upon the generosity of two members from the club to lend me their individual scooters, for which I am extremely grateful.
In case you are wondering, I should explain that around 12 years ago I had ME, which rendered me pretty much bed-bound for two years, and led to me having to give up my job as a teacher, and hence turn to writing. Thankfully, for the most part now I am fine, but I have had several relapses in the intervening years – and mostly after playing in the county championships.
One lot of 36 holes is OK, but, frustratingly, I just can’t keep doing it on subsequent days, because the over-exertion leaves me unable to play for weeks or even months afterwards again, meaning I miss most of the season. Hence I was delighted when the rules changed and I was allowed to use a buggy. Mind you, if you weren’t ill before you applied to use one, you certainly will be by the time you have finished!
Could the process be any more complicated? Firstly you need a letter signed by a ‘medical practitioner’, which I took to interpret as someone who practises medicine. However, after a blissfully ignorant three weeks, it turned out that a former fully qualified neurologist-turned-acupuncturist working at the Nuffield hospital wouldn’t suffice, because he was no longer on the GMC.
Marvellous! With only a week to go now I had to track down my GP. Despite Labour’s pledge to ensure everyone can get an appointment to see their doctor within two days, as the rest of the country isn’t actually in London, it doesn’t quite work like that in reality and the first available appointment to see anyone with the initials Dr before their name was a full week away.
I won’t bore you with the details of the letter chasing between two practices, number of phone calls and visits which ensued, but the letter did finally materialise at the eleventh hour. And then there was the matter of insurance. I had to show the world and his mother that I had insurance to drive a buggy – except that you can’t get buggy insurance unless you own one!
Tempting though it was to purchase my very own MadgeMobile, since I am only insane enough to attempt 36 holes three days running once a year, (and since on reflection it is really only one step away from meals on wheels) I continued down the route of borrowing one. Thankfully, my own annual travel insurance policy covered the requisite insurance, and the nice man on the phone assured me that I was covered for up to £2m for damages while driving a buggy. £2m? I would defy anybody to cause £2m-worth of damage driving a full-blown, super-charged, armour-plated buggy – let alone a MadgeMobile!
I even kept looking at the possibilities of driving it up the steps and through the French windows of the club just to see how many pounds I could rack up!
Jeremy Clarkson manages to demolish his way through lots of money each week on Top Gear, but I would defy even him to get close to £2m. I think I will send him the challenge. Even dropping a MadgeMobile from the top of a crane onto a brand-new Aston Martin would only be a couple of hundred thousand.
Anyway, I’m off to the tanning parlour now to work on my shrivelled-prune look. I just hope that the venue for next year’s county championship has proper grown-up buggies and that everyone involved in health and safety has been burned at the stake!