SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY

So good things/bad things always come in threes, eh?

Let me tell you about my Sunday. I had one of the most atrocious rounds of golf in my life in the morning. It was as if I had never played the game before. It was as if I had developed independent movement of my arms. They did what they liked; my brain didn’t get a look in. It was as if the purpose of the game was to tease the ball – shape up to hit it one way, then smack it in a different direction when it wasn’t looking.

In the afternoon I discovered that my first football love – Leicester City FC (it’s a long story) – had been relegated from the Championship to Division One, the old Div 3, for the first time in their history. Football fans will know what a catastrophe this is. It’s the slippy slope to oblivion, that’s what it is.

Then late that night, Mrs N and I were awoken by terrible screams when one of our weekend guests (think oldest friends) contrived to fall the length of our stairs. She screamed blue murder; she was in excruciating agony.

A paramedic was on the scene within five minutes; an ambulance 15 minutes later. It wasn’t so quick at the hospital but every NHS member we encountered, like the paramedics, was a model professional: skilled, kind, warm, concerned.

What looked really bad turned out to be very severe bruising, pain, and shock. Our friend was safe and well; nothing a week’s rest won’t put right.

Which puts a bad game of golf and a relegated football club into perspective –they don’t matter a shit, basically – and scuppers the myth of three in a row.

Two so-so things; one happy ending.