OUTBACK INCIDENT

INCIDENT at Forrester Park the other day. He arrived looking shocked and dishevelled, virtually falling into Katie’s arms.

“I was forced off the road by these teenagers in their car.  They must have been doing 40 miles an hour”, he twanged.

I am not sure what causes the sense of responsibility that takes over, but one seems duty-bound to assist someone who is on holiday in your village.

“Are you hurt?” Katie asked.

“No”.  He looked surprised.  “Oh, I just got stuck in the ditch”, he continued, realising the point of Katie’s question.

“Right”, I said, seizing this wonderful opportunity to leave the office on this sunny afternoon, “we’d better go and assess the situation”.

There was no doubt that the car was stuck in the ditch – very embarrassing for Cameron, our Australian holidaymaker.  It was one of those nondescript people-carriers, but it had French plates, as both he and his wife were staying in Europe and had only popped over to visit Essex, where his wife’s family had originated from.

He shook his head.  “They must have been doing 50 miles an hour”, he added.

“We need a tractor,” I said, delighted at the prospect.

I started my phoning.  First few calls, no good – husband out, tractor out spraying, flat battery.  Now I was ringing people with really big tractors.  Then – how exciting, it was on its way.

I returned to the ‘stranger in our land’.  My goodness, my heart sank.  There was another nondescript people-carrier parked alongside – and no Cameron.

“Hello?” I said to the open door of the people-carrier.

A woman’s head appeared – was this Cameron’s wife?  “Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m Tim.  I’ve just called for a tractor to pull the car out”, I said in my defence.

“I’ve just been looking after this poor man.”

Cameron appeared from the door.  “They must have been doing 60 miles per hour”, he purred.

“You’re all so kind,” he added.

Well thank goodness we are making some headway in relieving this international incident.

Then, to my delight, it appeared.  The Biggest Red Tractor you could hope for.

At this point I suspect readers of this blog will fall into two camps – those who think, ‘yes, the car gets pulled out’, and the likes of me, who delight in the detail.

It was a hire car – had he waived the excess payment?  How were we going to attach 200hp to this flimsy plastic bubble?  Would we just pull the front axle off?  How was Cameron going to cope?  He was obviously a man of books rather than spanners, at home in the suburban sitting rooms of Melbourne rather than the outback of Alice Springs.  He just seemed unable to understand that 200hp would pull him and his car up a vertical cliff and there was no need for him to spin the wheels with his foot flat on the floor!

Anyway, once safely back on the road with no more to show for the incident than a bit of Essex mud on his wheels, Cameron proceeded to shake our hands with such joy and gratitude, praising us and all men and women of Essex, that I really felt that a stream of Australian tourists would be beating their way to our door, with corks swinging from their hats and didgeridoos humming in the background – until Cameron looked the tractor driver in the eye and said, “Those kids must have been doing 80 miles per hour”.

Until the next time.

Tim Forrester-Muir

 

The Snowdrop Party

THE SNOWDROP PARTY

He looked at me; he was slightly irritated.  “But what is the Snowdrop Party?  What is the point of it?”

Ah, the double question.

“Well, the point of it is to have a bit of fun”.

He seemed to dislike this concept of fun.  Oh, well, here goes.

“You see”, I continued.  “My dear old friend James and I won the top prize in the lottery”.  Oh, yes, he liked that; irritation disappeared, he was now understanding.

“We were concerned that this win would change our lives – you know, you read about it all the time in the papers.  A couple of ordinary chaps win a fortune together.  Before they have even claimed the money there are arguments about who owns the ticket, then huge piles of wonga arrive in the bank account and fast cars and fast women are speedily overtaken by slow horses and sloe gin.  The once-happy family is reduced to an army of gold diggers who feel by some primitive right of bloodline that they are entitled to a share of the loot.”

He was really getting into this story – I wonder why?

‘So James and I went to our local pub to seek the advice of the trusty landlord.  Now John Gunn knew more about enjoying and reducing the burden of fortunes than most men I have ever met.  The first thing we should do, he explained, was to hold a party at his pub and invite everyone we know and all the locals and everyone they knew.  And that is how the Snowdrop Party started.

“So this year, we celebrated the Snowdrop Party with our friends and their friends and locals, etc, and raised £100 for a local charity and a Jubilee Party.”

I could see that he was much happier now – but there was just one question he had to ask.  To miss this moment would be like failing to ask the girl you wanted to marry on that moonlit night.  I could see the words forming and drifting from his lips.

“How much did you win?”

He had said it.  He stood, longing for the reply.

I looked at him with my best ‘can I trust you?’ look.

“I think,” I said furtively, “the church lottery paid us £30.  You really must come next year – it’s just a bit of fun”.

Until we meet again Tim Forrester-Muir from his desk at Forrester Park.

Some like it HOT!

It was Saturday afternoon and the weather was freezing.  Then along came one of those very pleasant surprise invitations – come round for a curry!

A brisk walk across the fields and we arrived.  The great advantage about tonight’s curry was, as our diet-conscious hostess assured us, that it was ‘Slimming World’.  This quite simply meant that you could eat as much as you liked and you lost weight.   I am not sure how this works but it goes something like this: each week you pay a life guru a £5 note along with a hundred others, and you are weighed.   You then learn the secret diet and the ‘sins’ – things you must not eat.

After this you spend your days and nights eating huge quantities of the right types of food, avoiding sins whenever possible and, hey presto!  You become slimmer – which our hostess has!

The meal started with popadoms, onion salad and raita, washed down with Kingfisher beer (a sin), followed by huge bowls of steaming rice, a wonderful chicken tandoori dish and a vegetable curry, complete with a little red wine (a sin).

Pudding was a wonderful rich creamy affair with meringue (completely ok) and a touch more sin.

As we arose from the table feeling remarkably full, I felt safe in the knowledge that although I felt I could well have over-indulged, I had not – I had probably lost weight!

We made our way home, just as the snow started to fall.

The following morning at 7.30am the phone rang.

“I am going to be late – there is a foot of snow in my drive,” said the voice.

I looked out of the window; there is something very beautiful about fresh, white, sparkling snow!

I hastened down to the club, and to my delight ‘Operation Snow Plough’ had worked.  The bright red smiling face of the Head Greenkeeper appeared from the tractor – a tractor that sported a bright red snow plough.  The chaps had worked since 6am clearing the drive, car park and steps.  Unlike much of the country, they would not let the snow stop them, and Forrester Park’s children’s party, starring Michael Fitch the Magician, could go ahead.

So, kids, you loved the Magic Show.  Now let’s hear it for Roland, his boys and that little red tractor and snow plough.  Hurrah!

Until we meet again.

Tim Forrester-Muir

Forrester Park Golf and Country Club

Whatever happened to January

Whatever happened to January?  One minute Mrs FM and I were serving champagne cocktails at the Forrester Park New Year’s Eve party (thank you to all those that came – it was a wonderful way to finish the old year).  But, as ever, wherever there is pleasure there is pain and well, once 1^st January was over, we were off.  We had some wonderful parties during the month – you know the type, where you meet up with good old friends.  And towards the end of January, Mrs FM had agreed to run the Mortlock Consort.

When we first met, I only had the slightest inkling of her musical talent.  I remember she did a voice part in Holst’s Planets with a choir at the Albert Hall.  I stood in the gods, and I can confess that by the end of the performance everyone around me knew that my girlfriend was singing.  Such elated behaviour made me realise that this ‘girlfriend’ could be a major threat to my comfortable bachelor life!

Anyway, organising an orchestra is a bit of a novelty to me, like organising a Californian Surfing Competition or the Palio de Siena!  Where do you start?  Luckily, I do not; but Mrs FM does.

First, you need to select the music.  Naturally you have to consult with your top musicians.  OK, so first you have to contact your top musicians.  All right, you have to speak to the conductor – well, probably him first.  Then select the music.  This seems to be problematic: “Well of course I love that, but this is so much better, don’t you think?”.   “How many are in the orchestra?” “How do I know, we haven’t got that far”.  “Do we have a rich string section?” (I thought all musicians were poor).  “Can some of them transpose their parts up a semitone?”  (I’m not sure that should happen at the golf club).  “Oh, it’s B flat minor” (is he talking about my children?).  “He would like to play first, and a solo”.  So it goes on.  It’s like organising two football teams and guaranteeing that some will be scoring goals.

Of course Mrs FM finds it easy.  She pops into the local Orchestra Store, picks one conductor, selects the music that will please the audience and players, orders the right number of strings, woodwind, brass – a balanced amount.  The store then sends all the music to all the players all around the country, everyone then practises all the pieces – naturally they can all play these bits of music.  Then it’s just a matter of Mrs FM running over a few bits of music herself, and then the Big Day.

You can imagine breakfast; there are always these calls.  “What?  You swallowed your harp?  The whole thing?  You must have been hungry”.  “Oh, so you can’t come because you can’t get your piano in your new Fiat 500?  Well, fancy buying an Italian car for a Steinway!”

Of course from here it’s plain sailing.  They all get to work and play the parts they have been practising by themselves, together.  Have a fortifying cup of tea and a sandwich and, bingo!

Oh bother, I forgot the music stands and lights.  Oh yes, and you’ve just got to find the 110 people to sit in the audience (Orchestra Store to the rescue).  And tickets?

Anyway, Mrs FM, naturally with lots of help from the Orchestra Store, seems to manage.  Happy January!

Until the next time.

Tim Forrester-Muir at his desk in Forrester Park Golf and Country Club

Going Dutch At Christmas

GOING DUTCH AT CHRISTMAS I am very lucky; yet again my family wish to come and stay for Christmas. But this year there is a new plan afoot. My nephew’s Dutch girlfriend of a decade or so has made a suggestion. Now my daughters, who think she is the best thing to come out of Holland since that boy stuck his finger in the dyke, were bursting with excitement to sell old Dad the idea. Simply put, each family member would spend £20-ish on three presents, the presents would be anonymously wrapped, and on Boxing Day a game would be played where the presents would be won, lost, bought, sold, given, received etc. Naturally at first I was dead against the idea. I mean I had, as host, always received some wonderful presents – bottles of whisky, cases of different beers, weather stations, history books etc. I mean, I would miss out. I was perhaps too honest about this and was rightly chastised for my meanness of spirit and selfishness. Naturally, at this point I changed my view and decided it was a brilliant idea. As Christmas approached I was questioned by my girls about whether I had got the presents. I made comments about visiting local hardware and kitchen shops; they pulled faces reminding me that the presents had to be suitable for all the family. Finally Boxing Day arrived, and the 12 family members sat round a table with 36 individually-wrapped presents. I have to confess that buying three presents for £20-ish with no one particular person in mind had been really quite easy. The game was played over several rounds. For each round my nephew and his Dutch girlfriend had made a sheet with instructions for each of the six numbers on a die. For example: 1 – take a present from the middle; 2 – unwrap a present; 3 – give a wrapped present to the person on your left; 4 – return a present to the middle. As the rounds progressed, numbers thrown would represent taking a ‘chance’ card out of one of two brightly-coloured silk bags. Now at this point I must confess to loving the game, mainly because a family member will read this. And if there is one thing this game requires, it is tact! You see, as the rounds go on you notice things. For example that your neighbour really likes a certain present – and then you find that the silk bag instructs you to take a present from your neighbour! Another conundrum that the silk bag issued to my mother-in-law was the task of awarding all my nephew’s presents to someone else! Luckily, diplomacy flows through her wise veins and she sent them all to his Dutch girlfriend! It must also be pointed out that although you might think the present you have just opened was put in as a joke, beware! The person who gave it might have viewed it as something they really liked. Then, finally, when you reach the end of the game and, like me, you have a box of 12 Russian Roulette chocolates, take a moment to consider what might happen if you offer them round. Because, if the chocolate filled with chilli powder is consumed by someone who can remember the last war (not the Falklands), and if that person has a streak of theatre that would make Laurence Olivier proud, they might just put on the finest choking-to-death scene you have ever witnessed. At this point the family will rise up against you and all you can hope is that the thespian’s eyes pop open quickly, with indignation that there was no applause for their wonderful acting! I am really looking forward to playing the game next year – and I promise to be more tactful.

Happy New Year.

From Tim Forrester-Muir

Tim’s Christmas Message

Tim’s Christmas message direct from the heart of Forrester Park.

Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat, Please put a penny in the old man’s hat,If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do – If you haven’t got a ha’penny then God bless you.

I love Christmas for all those reasons, but possibly because it has always been a happy time for me.  Obviously tradition is important, but we must embrace change, we are told.  So this is a change – an e-mail Christmas card!

Anyway, we are having a fantastic year; the new young team are really getting the Old Club moving on the social, golf and tennis side, and for me it is like a tonic being surrounded by a  wonderful ‘can-do’ crowd.

It has been a year of changes – many positive changes.  I have just come in from the clubroom where 80 golfers, many dressed in Christmas apparel, have marched up to collect their Turkey Drive prizes.  Upstairs families are enjoying Christmas and birthday lunches.  There is a lovely buzz about the place as laughter rings out from the bar.

On Friday night we had a party night and to our great amusement 99 girls and three men appeared.  When I came down I was bought drinks and asked for dances, but luckily my two grown-up daughters kept an eye on Dad – and I was duly sent home to bed.  How times have changed!

I am really looking forward to 2012.  So let me wish you a very Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year.

Many thanks to you all for your smiles, laughter and custom.

Yours

Tim.

Forrester Park Golf and Country Club

CHRISTMAS!

CHRISTMAS! 

Father Christmas at Forrester Park

One minute it’s the First of December, then ‘Bang!’, it’s the Forrester Park Christmas Draw Night.  I, like anyone in my line of business, worry that no-one will turn up.  However, when I arrive at 6pm my worries are dispelled as I struggle to find a parking place.  As I arrive at the front door the snow machine sends a flurry of snow into the wind and I am offered mulled wine and hot dogs.

I queue my way upstairs and am greeted by a past lady captain beaming from ear to ear.  “Why did you not do this when I was Captain?” she enquires.  I mumble something about my not having organised anything myself this year, then enter the fray.

I wander round looking at the clothes, bags, smoked food, cakes, jewellery, pictures….  To girls shopping is a sport – later I will be tested by my girls to name all the stalls in the order they are set out.  I am dreading my first trip to Westfield and its seven miles of mind-boggling shops!

Then downstairs to meet Father Christmas.  As I approach the fairy grotto a mother coos, “That’s the first time little Tabitha has not screamed at Father Christmas.”

Then I see the awful truth.  Father Christmas has no beard.  Is it some new directive from Europe?  Or are we no longer allowed to wear false beards – beardism?

I mean to ask the Elf, but the ‘Elf of ‘Elf and Safety is so keen to tell me about the special role Elves play in protecting children from Father Christmas that I don’t get an answer on the ‘Beard Question’ – and everyone knows the Elf has been living with Father Christmas for years!

Before we know it, the Draw has been drawn and the Great Totham Choir starts to sing ‘Good King Wenceslas’.

Christmas is on its way.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from all at Forrester Park Golf and Country Club.

Tim Forrester-Muir.