Friday, December 5, 2014


Ever since I didn't die on a trolley in the Hallamshire Hospital in Sheffield, and a surgeon made an inspired guess, drilled into my head to let the pressure out and my squashed brain began to re-expand, my memory isn't so good.
     "Like a sieve" is apt - most of the events, faces and details of the day just run through it.  What catches and sticks is ordinary, and precious.  Glimpses of the day - two squirrels pursuing each other round a tree in a glimmering grey double helix, Leo flipping his trilby up along his arm onto his head and flashing a grin before setting off to school, the bone-white new moon in a blue-black permanent sky when I lock up the shed - they remain, glittering flakes in the bottom of the sieve.
     Songs and their words, those I can remember without effort.  Even the ones I don't like stick.  Poems, likewise.  And there are some holes on some golf courses that I can still walk myself through any time.  A strikingly high proportion of those holes are on Shiskane.

-Andrew Greig, Preferred Lies:  A Journey to the Heart of Scottish Golf

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