SWEATING IT

A woman at the gym put her towel on one piece of equipment and then went to use another one.

'Ignorant cow!' I wanted to shout. But I didn't.

Instead, I shot her a dirty look. If she'd been looking my way at the time I'm sure it would have cut her to pieces.

GOOD TO TALK

A man from BT rings.

'Would you like me to give you more bang for your buck?' he says.

I should make a witty retort along the lines of 'you can buy me a drink first!' but I don't. Instead, I listen to his tedious discourse on how he can save me 31p on my bill.

I decline and hang up feeling victorious.

Now, I can't help wondering if I could use that 31p.

I wonder if he will ring back.

SALE OF THE CENTURY

I am buying underpants in Next. Five pairs for £7.

I take them to the checkout but the man behind the counter looks at them and pulls a face.

Does he think they are an embarrassing purchase for a 33 year-old? ‘Look at him,’ he’s thinking, ‘he still reckons he’s a 20-something who will appear cool in these. Pathetic!’

But no. He’s examining them because there’s something wrong.

‘There’s only three pairs in here,’ he says. ‘I can’t sell them.’

I already know that they are the last pack in the sale. I think on my feet.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘can’t you just knock down the price?’

‘I can’t do that, sir. They’re damaged.’

‘I don’t think they are,’ I say. ‘I think there are just two missing.’

I put on my best pleading look, as if I'll have to walk round pantless for the rest of my life. To my astonishment, it works.

‘I’ll ask my supervisor,’ he says.

This could go one of two ways. Suddenly, buying these three pairs of pants becomes the biggest deal in the world. It will either be a victory for decency and the common man or proof of how we’ve all gone to hell in a handcart in this politically correct, New Labour world where parents can’t video their kids performing in the school orchestra and nobody can light a firework without first attending a course.

He comes back.

‘My supervisor says I can take £2.66 off the marked price,’ he says.

I quickly work out that they have been reduced by more than a third and am now full of elation. ‘Yes!’ I think, ‘common sense can prevail, two men can work such problematic things out without recourse to lawyers! This is a great day!’

I pay and stare at him with glee. What a wonderful man.

He gives me my change and stares back at me with, what is that? Love? Could it actually be love?

Then he looks to my side and I realise there is a queue of people behind me.

I nod and leave.

DO I HAVE SWINE FLU?

I have the cough. I’ve had the cough for two weeks.

Last night I felt achy but I don’t feel so bad today.

I also had a bit of diarrhea but that may have been from an under-heated lasagne.

WHEN FICTION BECOMES FACT

In a film, it would have gone in. In a film, Tom Watson would have holed the putt, lifted his tired but exultant arms above his head, embraced his tearful wife and drunk in the emotional ovation of the delighted crowd.

But it wasn’t a film. It was real life and, in real life, he missed.

No, that’s doing the word ‘missed’ a disservice. In truth, the putt dribbled and died and with it so did the hopes of the watching world.

Everyone knew it was over then. Watson had had his chance and now it was gone. There was to be no fairytale ending, only a humiliating hour hacking around in a play-off while Stuart Cink, serene and with plenty left in the tank, secured victory.

Nobody, with the exception of his wife and gamblers who had backed him, was supporting Cink. But nobody thought he would lose.

In sport, as in life, the chance comes and you must seize it otherwise it will fall from your hands forever: asking out or not asking out that person you fancy; giving up or not giving up your job for something else which may, or may not, work out; quitting alcohol to stay healthy or carrying on drinking because, let’s face it, we’re all going to die and it could be tomorrow.

Films show us life as we would like it to be. Sport shows us life as it is: full of joy and full of sorrow but not in any prescribed order.

For Tom Watson the Open Championship ended in sorrow at what might have been. Nobody could believe he would win until he was on that final green.

Yet this was perhaps the one time Watson himself did not believe the title would be his.

ALL THE WORLD'S A PAGE

So why write a blog? Aren't there enough in cyberspace already?

Well, I may have things to say and, if I do, I shall say them here instead of wandering the streets, bellowing them at scared passers-by.

There's no point to any of this, I'm pleased to report.