“Well, put it this way, if you don’t have surgery, you’ll never play golf again!”

Those were the words greeting me after the MRI scan on my shoulder. And that set off a whole chain reaction of thoughts relating to whether that would be such a bad thing after all.

For instance, I would be far richer if I didn’t play golf. Having only played two lots of nine holes in the last nine months, that one complete round of golf has turned out to be a tad pricey.

I would also probably be far better tempered if I didn’t play golf. I wouldn’t come home wanting to stab anybody who asked “how did you get on?” if I had just gone up 0.1 in the medal.

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But, if I didn’t pick up my clubs again, I would probably be bored.

Until that ill-fated day last September when a lorry decided to do a U-turn in front of me on a dual carriageway, I played golf pretty much every day – not massively, just five or six holes, or hitting 20-40 balls to keep things ticking over. But it was a big part of my life.

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Unfortunately, there was far more damage to repair than the scan had shown, so now I am adapting to life in a sling.
What I can’t do is join my fellow ladies in a competition” At this stage I am still a little too tender to resume playing one-handed golf, but I gave it several goes before my op and had my eyes opened to a whole new world.

I did have aspirations to get a temporary 36 handicap which I was confident I could play to, and possibly have a target of getting down to 28 which would have given me something positive to work towards.

However, I was devastated when England Golf thwarted that plan by saying I could only have three shots more than my handicap!

I know the society of one-armed golfers has some very low handicappers in its folds, but it would take years to get to that standard.

I would like to challenge anyone to go out and play just with their right hand, and come in having dropped only three shots over their handicap. Three shots a hole would be more like it!

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As soon as I am able to use two arms again, I would have reverted to my original handicap, but now that little avenue of pleasure has been cut off for me. Now there’s absolutely no incentive in trying to resume where I left off.

Instead, I will confine myself to the more mundane tasks in life, like trying to squeeze a bottle of shampoo and catching the liquid at the same time.

What I can’t do is join my fellow ladies in a competition.

What are the authorities afraid of I wonder – that I will become a genuine one-armed bandit?


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