Serendipity

It might seem an odd thing for a manic depressive to believe in serendipity, but this one does, and the last few days have strengthened that belief.

On Monday I was playing golf at Pype Hayes and had clawed my way back to respectability after an inept front nine. On the eighteenth I waited an age for the group in front to get out of range. Too long - as ever the Pig was overestimating his strength. He forgets he is sixty. So it goes. Anyway, after all that time waiting and thinking about the shot, the Pig took a measured swipe with his driver and calmy sliced the ball way left (the Pig is left-handed). The Pig's mood was gloomy as he searched for the ball in the long grass, in the ditch, in all the bad places. His mates helped him and the pessimistic Pig was ready to call the search off when, serendipity, AK found the ball for him, sitting up like a coconut, fully twenty yards nearer to the green than the Pig had anticipated. So it goes.

A left-handed Pig

Now, if you don't know the eighteenth at Pype Hayes, well the one place you don't want to be is left. What now faced the Pig was either a sensible chip out sideways or a massive thrash with a seven wood (yes the Pig knows it's a girl's club but he likes it) and a forty yard curve from right to left. Now, of course, it was just such a slice that the Pig had played from the tee. However he can't do these things to order. He essays another measured swing and this time makes fantastic contact. The ball does manage a curve but only twenty yards not the requisite forty. Admiring his handiwork, the Pig grimaces as the ball soars straight towards a thick bush. So it goes.

The gloomy mood returns but the Pig decides he will retrieve the ball from the bush - after all they're expensive. But, serendipity, on his way to said bush, the Pig finds the ball in the rough, two yards short of the bush. He has an impossible shot to the flag - it would be a lob off a bare lie, with no green to play with. The Pig knows his limits, so plugs in his imagination and designs a low running shot that will take advantage of a slope at the front of the green and, at best, pull up, say, ten feet from the pin. That is the plan - in reality the Pig takes a nervy jab at it and sends the ball tearing over the slope so that it comes to rest forty feet from the hole. Then he sinks the putt. A par. So it goes.

And that's not all folks. This week the governments of England and Wales have deigned to allow the Pig to travel to Plas Piggy, which he duly did. All was well at the country estate, or at least so it seemed. The Pig took a stroll round to Red Wharf Bay in unabashed sunshine. God was in his Heaven etc etc. All good things must come to an end and the Pig was making his tour of inspection before setting off home to Casa Piggy. Absent-mindedly he lifted the drain cover to see that all was well, and what he saw was - I'm sorry dear reader, what he saw was a load of shit, a right load of old shit. Given that the Piggy family had been absent for half a year, the only thing we can be sure of is that this was not pig shit. No matter, regular readers will recall that there is nothing like a pig in shit. The Pig gets a remarkable sense of well-being out of using his drain rods - he keeps a set both at Casa Piggy and at Plas Piggy. But could he shift the malodorous obstruction? Could he bollocks. Now you might be wondering where serendipity comes into this situation. Well, here's how it goes - in asking neighbours if I could lift their drain covers I was advised that there have been previous blockages and that Welsh Water have cleared them, free and gratis. Now this surprised me because I had always understood our shared sewers to be private - that's certainly what the deeds say. No matter, armed with the telephone number given to me by NH next door I called up the water company. Brilliant - efficient and courteous on the phone and with me within two hours. Again, courteous and cheerful. Drains duly jetted and clear within a further half hour. Serendipity? Well, if I hadn't lifted that drain cover the shit would have continued to back up and on my next visit I would have been up to my arms in the stuff - as things stood, I got no deeper than my wrists. So it goes.

Finally, I chose the scenic route home, which meant I was treated to the priceless sight of snow capping the sunlit peaks of Snowdonia. Sometimes, just sometimes, so it goes.