I really hurt this morning. Every inch of my body is complaining that golf is not the sport for us. Combine this problem with the fact that I used my body as a retirement home for grapes over the last 12 hours and you'll see how I don't feel superb.
The golf... well, sadly we've not discovered that I have a secret talent. Par Laura = 10 and a bunker. By the time we got halfway round the course I had more sand in my bra than there was in the bunker. You could easily tell where I had been with my ball because there was a small heap of turf there. The course looked a little like a mole had been travelling in tandem with my team mates. Brilliant.
Then it came to the fines... it was important to drink a finger of your drink for each bunker, air swing and shot that went less than 15 feet. Needless to say I drank the vast majority of my bottle of wine in one go. Brilliant.
This morning I woke up with a bottle of red wine leaking quietly into my handbag, a body and brain that are no longer on speaking terms, and a trip home awaiting at the end of the day. Thank heavens for the sanctuary of the West Country.
It was a massive relief to get back to the house and find out that all of my housemates are in a similar position. There is rock salt all over the kitchen from where one housemate exploded her cupboard after consuming the lion's share of the world's alcohol, there's a trail of pop corn from the kitchen to the top floor from where two other housemates ended their night out and trip to a strip club, with everyone's favourite movie snack.
We're now all eating varies forms of bacon and carbohydrates in front of Wrestlemania... you know when people tell you everything's very different after University? They're lying.