An Interesting Summer

I have just finished an unprecedented nine-week run on the tour starting at the Evian Masters on the 19^th July finishing in Spain on the 19^th September and thought it time to reflect on an interesting period in my professional life.

After a player I was particularly fond of decided she was unable to afford a caddy anymore I was o'ut of work and ‘on the spit’ as it’s known. Don’t ask.

A week or two prior to this news I was enjoying a third or fourth caffe con leche in Portugal when I was asked by one of the LET’s – hell, Ladies Golf’s - most colourful characters, Smriti (Simi) Mehra to work for her, should she be granted her anticipated invite to the year’s premier event, the Evian Masters.

The following week in Tenerife the invite duly appeared on the home page of the LET website and a few days later I was on the plane to Geneva for a week of slander, libel, abuse and a whole lot of fun with Simi.

It was during this great week – via text message during the practice round in fact - that I received the news that I wasn’t going to be working with my favourite player anymore. 

Breanne was struggling with a few issues off the course, which sadly affected her performance on the course. One of the consequences of all this was me. I was gutted. I had never enjoyed working with anyone as much as I did with Breanne and now I was not only out of a job, but with eight weeks straight coming up that I had committed to mentally, vocationally and financially, I was screwed.

One event at a time...

Simi and I had a great opening day overlooking Lac Leman shooting an unexpected two under par 70 leaving us comfortably in the top 20. Unfortunately she followed it up with an equally unexpected 80, which left us on the next flight home. 

I enjoyed my time with Simi and to be working at the Evian Masters with the best players in the world at one of the best events on the Ladies’ calendar was a real honour.

The British Open at Royal Birkdale followed and through a good friend of mine known as the Scouse Mouse, I had managed to arrange couple of days work with an American girl called Beth Bader. Final Qualifying was held at the sensational Hillside Golf Club. one of Jack Niklaus's favourite courses no less. It was Beth’s only chance to qualify for the prestigious event and I did all I could to help her through. 

I had two agendas that week: a, she’s a really nice girl and had flown all the way from California to try out for the event and secondly, thanks to my recent ‘redundancy’ I didn’t have job for the Open and figured, if I got her through, I’d have a week’s work at a major tournament. 

My Grandmother and her brother, Harold were members at Royal Birkdale for many years and since becoming a caddy on the LET, I knew it was an event I wanted to work at. Beth played ok but missed a few crucial putts and sadly missed out playing in The Open that time around. Hopefully she’ll return next year when we’re at Carnoustie.

Desperate to work within the ropes at Birkdale, I was lingering around the course trying hard to ask every player that walked by if my skills might be of interest. I'd committed to accommodation which wasn't an easy thing to get during this week in a small town like Southport. 

I was running out of time, patience and was considering driving home considerably out of pocket for the week, when I saw some of the French girls coming out of the bedroom next door in the B&B I was staying at. Quelle surprise.  

One player I knew had a caddy – the giveaway being her canoodling with him the corridor - but the other I wasn't sure. I’ve always had a soft spot for the delightful Melodie Bourdy and couldn’t quite muster up the courage to approach her for the first time and it be asking for work. So like a complete coward, I didn’t.

The following day I was loitering with intent around the putting green when she approached me! Shaking like a pathetic pubescent boy, I tried to look cool and indifferent - as is my annoying defence mechanism - but rather than approaching me for my good looks and irresistible charm, she wanted me to carry her bag for the week.

She was obviously feeling less than confident about her ability in this field of elite players and only offered me a day rate until the cut on Friday. With a practice round included I was going to be marginally better off and assuming she made it through to the weekend, the percentages and two more days work, right…? Nope. She wasn't prepared to offer me a percentage. I was keen to work but not be taken advantage of. I have some standards. 

With a hint of reluctance, I agreed and walked away pleased to have the work but bitterly disappointed with not only my poor negotiating skills but the pitiable, quivering state she saw me in. It was as if I had been offered a date but on no accounts was there to be any suggestion of a kiss…

After a fair bit of thought the night before, I approached her on the putting green and before I lagged her weighty bag on my shoulder, I said I wanted percentages included - as any decent caddy worth his salt should - to which she looked at me pitifully and said, “Bien sür.”

Royal Birkdale is tough, really tough for a big hitter and Melodie isn't a big hitter. She narrowly missed the cut at her first Open and left understandably disappointed. I, however could now go to my cousin’s wedding the following day. It was a quandary that had been bugging me all year but even though Melodie missed the cut and I perhaps missed out working the weekend at a Major tournament, I’d worked at Royal Birkdale and went home with some cash in my pocket. My grandmother would have been proud. 

A great time was had by all at the wedding too. They call that a win, win situation.

Word travels fast in this game and it was common knowledge that I was without a bag for the foreseeable future and the head of our Caddies' Association, Shane had been in touch with me regarding a job the following week in Ireland. Being his home event he had his ear pretty close to the ground and had been asked to find someone to work with Irish teenage sensations, the Maguire twins. I called up their coach and after a very brief conversation had a week’s work lined up at The AIB Irish Open with Lisa Maguire.

We had a great week together playing alongside Laura Davies for two days and enjoyed, by far the biggest crowds I have ever experienced. Lisa even beat Laura shot for shot over the two days and finished 22^nd as the highest placed amateur. I was thrilled for her but she’s so good with such high expectations that only winning the event would have sufficed. She’s an immense talent and I believe I’ve sown the seed for a promising future.

Knocking back a few well-earned ‘points a da black stooff’ on the Sunday afternoon I was still unsure as to what I was doing the following week in Wales. There was to be no doubt that I would be attending the event as I had left my car in the car park the week before to avoid the ridiculous ferry charges for two cars. Having asked about during the week at Killeen Castle I hadn’t pinned down anyone for the following week.

Just as I about to consider driving home the next day from Conwy, I was approached by Anne-Lise Caudal and asked if I could do the next couple of events with her. I was delighted. I know of all the players out there she is one of the better ones who hasn’t ever had a full time caddy for any length of time. Flattered would be an understatement. I still I had prove my worth though.

The following Sunday, on a very tough, very windy course in north Wales we finished 4^th earning Ms Caudal a tidy sum and me a little bonus - something that had been missing for a while this summer.

Anna Lise never quite got it going in Scotland on a course that I thought might suit her long, low, straight hitting style but with dire conditions on the final day she battled it around for a respectable top 20 result. Not knowing or having even discussed our working relationship after the final putt on Friday in Scotland, I had to ask her whether she would like me on the bag the following week in Finland. She wasn't going.

The LET had had a few tournaments cancelled and therefore the season was finishing early this year. I was keen to blitz the last nine events and really wanted to go to Helsinki and Finland, a country I had yet to visit. I had to find yet another bag first though. It wasn't just a holiday!

An American girl had caught my eye in New Zealand earlier in the year and had seen her floating around, especially at the higher end of the leader-boards all year. I’d also shared a room with a friend of hers at Evian a few weeks before and we'd been introduced. We got on well straight away and I had since heard through the very thin LET grapevine that she quite fancied me on the bag. How this happens I don’t know. Anyway I spoke to her on Facebook – as we do – and within about 30seconds, the following week in Helsinki was lined up.

Alison Walshe has a great all round game and barring one mistake we could have finished top five. She was a bit disappointed to have finished 12^th but it was still a good week for both of us.
It was only when I was on the way to the airport that she texted me saying she couldn’t afford the money I was asking for. This puzzled me no end and whilst we were ‘chatting’ on FaceBook we were on the verge of falling out when Anne-Lise texted me asking if I was available for Austria the following day. I hadn’t heard from her all week and her timing was impeccable. 

I signed off from Alison with a, "No worries. good luck with everything x" just in the nick of time and bought myself a beer to celebrate another bag lined up for another week.

Anne-Lise wasn't quite on form in Austria and we missed the cut together. That never looks good on your CV but you have to forget about it and move on. She’s about as cool as they come in the world of women’s golf and if she wasn’t too bothered then why should I be?

Austria was only a three day event this year through lower than usual prize money and so I decided to work the Sunday for anyone I could get hold of. You never get much money for the day’s work but it’s a day spent on the course and, if you're lucky, in contention.

I had lined up - through everyone’s favourite medium; FaceBook, a day’s work with a great girl called Holly Aitchison and was looking forward to it immensely. We’ve always got on well and knew she’d been playing well of late as we’d played with her on the final day in Wales a few weeks before. I was all set to work with her when I bumped into Alison in the lobby a couple of hours before tee time.

She’d played well so far and was lying in 15^th place. She asked if I was available for the day and I agreed instantly. Apologies were profusely passed to Holly who thankfully lined up a great caddy in Pete. 

Sadly Holly struggled that day and posted a +5 score to slip her down the leader-board. Alison however played her socks off shooting the low round of the day 67 leaving her 2^nd for the tournament. In one round of golf on the LET Alison managed to secure her playing privileges for the 2011 season and I was proud to be a part of it. Second place was my best ever finish and I was on a day rate. Typical. Alison gave me a ‘drink’ for a good day and promised me more but hey… I'm still waiting. All good PR I guess.

So Anne-Lise and I regrouped in Paris and, playing once again with Laura Davies, we battled through three rounds with nothing really happening. Ironically, just as her coach was leaving on the Sunday she stepped up a gear and shot another final round 67 ascending the leader-board to finish 11^th. A decent cheque banked and on we went to Spain.

Get around don't we?

The members of the LET were exhausted by now. I was one of the select few who had worked eight consecutive events prior to this by working Evian and the British Open as well as the limited field in Scotland but most of the girls had chosen to play all the remaining events too so there was a little fatigue evident within everyone.

Yet another lightning delay reduced the four days to three, which helped the weary players and caddies no end and after a fairly uneventful three rounds we finished a disappointing 30^th. 

Laura Davies won her fourth event of the year, which took her into top spot on the Henderson Money list. For any player that’s an achievement but for a 46 year old, that’s just awesome. She’s a special talent and no mistake.

So, nine events in eight countries caddying for six different girls made for a summer I’ll never forget and some learning experiences some will never have. I could quite easily have given up after Breanne let me go but I had been looking forward to the tail end of the season and decided to persevere with the tour until the end. The thought of being a ‘bag-hopper’ and having fellow caddies calling me Tesco’s or Sainsbury’s thanks to the number of bags I’d had, was always a prospect I despised. I’d done my best to spend the previous two years with just the three players and desperately wanted to find another good player, form a solid relationship and normality would resume.

In hindsight, however I worked for some of the most interesting and talented players in the women’s game and learned a lot about people, girls, caddying, perseverance, pressure and most of all about myself. I can get down in the dumps, negged out, depressed and generally hate everything and everyone sometimes but somehow I always manage to dust myself off and come back stronger. This is what I did this summer and I think I am a better person and a better caddy for it.

CK

The Gambia

IT’S NICE TO BE NICE

When faced with the doom and gloom of Britain in mid February the holidaymaker will inevitably consider a week away somewhere warm and if financially possible, somewhere tropical.

Unfortunately towards the end of March there are limited countries to visit where the temperature is a ‘sweater-free’ 25 degrees or more without flying all the way to the Caribbean or Middle East. That is, of course until you discover The Gambia.

Enjoying an average of ten hours of sunshine a day at a temperate 28-32degrees The Gambia is fast becoming the long haul destination a short haul away.

Before you even climb on the plane you are sure to have bought a rough guide to the country and most of them will inevitably inform you of the good and bad things to watch out for when visiting The Gambia for the first time. Some will even stress the bad things more than the good but until you visit and make your own mind up, you just won’t know how great the country is.

Only five and a half hours away from Gatwick and in the same time zone, Banjul, the country’s capital, will be your first port of call and the Gambian spirit will immediately embrace you. Grinning from ear to ear, the smiling porters will carry your luggage the short wander through customs to your awaiting coach and a couple of dalasi or the always-welcome US dollar, will be a sufficient tip for their efforts.

The unique juxtaposition of The Gambia means it is almost entirely enveloped by neighbouring Senegal leaving only the 50mile coastline exposed to the Atlantic. This is naturally where the majority of the country’s hotels are and they run south from the capital past Fjara, Kotu and Kololi to Senegambia. Around the Senegambia area the hotels are set back from the fabulous beach that runs the entire coastline of the country to the southern border with Senegal. The hotel facilities in The Gambia are known to be basic but they are clean and comfortable and provide the visitor with everything they might require.

The main tourist district of the country is the Senegambia Strip where numerous delicacies await your palate. As you would expect in any tourist area ‘the strip’ is awash with extra-enthusiastic waiters and waitresses persuading you to sample their culinary delights and it's well worth accepting their invitations. The restaurants vary considerably from traditional West African cuisine to more recognisable Italian, Indian and Chinese food to name but a few. The most popular dish in The Gambia is Ladyfish served in a peanut sauce. Ladyfish can be best described as a white fish with a beautiful fleshy, moist texture similar to that of cod or monkfish but with a slightly milder flavour. Peanuts are one of the country’s main exports and are prevalent in many dishes. If you've an allergy, beware. 

A scout through the guides available on the shelves at your local travel bookstore will have convinced you The Gambia isn’t the most sophisticated or developed country and in all honesty it isn’t. But that is exactly why you travel to far flung corners of the world isn’t it? The cities of UK and Europe are gradually blending into one and it’s a revelation to arrive in Western Africa after such a short flight and be greeted by local shops purveying their local goods.

Known as ‘The Smiling Coast’ the people of The Gambia are honest people genuinely interested in you and your background. Travel guides put the fear of god into you when it comes to the locals who will befriend you as soon as you step out of your hotel. They are unaffectionately known as ‘bumsters’ and have an extremely poor reputation especially around Senegambia. But as with anywhere in the world, if you give them a friendly handshake and have a brief chat you may find them to be really informative, helpful and above all – nice. There’s no reason to be afraid of them either. 

The Gambia is a poor country and the ‘bumsters’ are poor people who live close to the poverty line but are merely trying to make a living for themselves by showing you around the country they are so clearly proud of. Unlike the disadvantaged in the UK you will seldom see someone asking you for money for nothing in The Gambia - they are a hard-working race that believes in honesty and integrity from an early age and this you’ll see as you get to know them. And I suggest you do or you’ll miss out on what I felt was The Gambian Experience.

The guidebooks, amongst other things will also tell you to stay out of the yellow taxis that cruise up and down the streets but there really isn’t any need to. They are, according to myth reserved for the locals and the tourist should use the green taxis specifically designed for them. The truth is the green ones are more expensive as they are predominantly in better roadworthy shape than their yellow counterparts. If you ask a green taxi for a ride to Banjul from the Senegambia strip for example you could end up paying 200 dalasi when the yellow cab drivers will only charge you around 100. You may even find a taxi driver – as we did - who will bend over backwards to show you his country.

When we were there in March we wandered out of our hotel in Senegambia and knowing roughly what we wanted to do for the day approached the nearby taxi rank and were immediately inundated with varying different offers from the awaiting drivers. The haggling was fun and we finally agreed a price for a green taxi. As we were about to hop in, great big guy called Hasan wandered up and said he’d do it for almost half of the agreed rate for a trip south, so we did as most would and jumped in his car. 

Scarcely recognisable as a Renualt 9 anymore the car looked as though it had been in the breaker’s yard for years and stripped of everything of any value and then sold back to Hasan as a relatively bare shell that still ran. Just.

We drove down to Paradise beach in the south and had a great day knocking back a few of the local beers; ‘Julbrew’ and enjoyed the perfect weather. We were shown around the fishing village by Hasan and the locals and watched as the handmade boats were dragged in after a morning’s fishing expedition. We were talked through every type of fish they caught and watched as the women boned and de-scaled the catch before drying them.

Hasan waited patiently for the whole day and when we were ready to head back we jumped back in the car and drove the 45minute journey home again. We only parted with the equivalent of about £11 for Hasan’s day and bought him lunch and a few bottles of Fanta but all in all a cheap way to visit exactly where you wanted to go with your own personal guide too.

From then on we called upon the services of our new best friend every other day and even went all the way to James Island with him. The journey took us into downtown Banjul and onto the ferry to the northern side of the country. We then changed car thanks to the negotiating skills of Hasan and headed down the road to the northern shores of the Gambian River. We chartered a little boat and headed off to the place where African slavery began. James Island is a fascinating place accessed only by a visit through the fishing village of Juffureh on the northern shore of the Gambian River. The locals will guide you around their town and through the museum. It’s a very sacred place in The Gambia and although slavery has long since been abolished, the recognition of their forefather’s suffering is evident everywhere.

Hop in a boat for the short ride over to the island and the accompanying guides will have you singing Bob Marley songs about freedom and emancipation throughout the half hour sail. Our guide showed us around the World Heritage Site and described the conditions and procedure for the sale of the slaves to the United States in a heartfelt, emotional manner that left us all feeling a little guilty for the behaviour of our forefathers.

Hasan had lived in The Gambia all of his life and had never visited James Island so it was fascinating to see his reaction too. It was a touching tribute to the people of West Africa and well worth the visit.

There’s so much to do in The Gambia; sail through the mangrove waters; visit the Crocodile Park; have lunch on floating restaurants deep in heart of the River Gambia and if you’re lucky, be invited to Hasan’s house for dinner with his family.

The Gambia is the closest place you can go if you want to explore and discover the real Africa. The people are friendly and love their country passionately. The Gambia’s history is something the nation is extremely proud of and maintaining its integrity and welcoming newcomers to their shores is something they strive to achieve with aplomb. The weather is superb, the food is fresh and exquisitely prepared and the atmosphere is fun, lively, sincere and you’ll love it.

The key phrase in The Gambia is, ‘It’s nice to be nice’. Say no more.

CK

Getting to Chatel

I’ve always wanted to live in France.

We used to come to France most years as a kid and I always warmed to the French way of life and their inimitable joie de vivre. I love walking to the patisserie dans le matin and asking for quatre croissants et deux baguettes. The conviviality of the baker and the simple pleasantries French life has to offer always endeared this country to me.

I was having dinner a couple of years ago with my girlfriend, Debs when I asked her if she’d like to live in France and she lit up like a Belisha Beacon. With her being French it was always going to go down well. My job as a caddy on the Ladies European Tour means I need to be near an airport and to base ourselves in France would mean I could also drive to half a dozen events. So with the all clear from the wife and every reason pointing to a positive move it was just a case of where.

Chamonix has always been somewhere I have warmed to as I feel comfortable, at home and having travelled a fair bit around the globe I still haven’t seen many places that outdo the stunning scenery that Chamonix valley has to offer. So we booked a flight out to Geneva in the summer to have a drive around the Alps for perhaps a little village to call our own.

We drove around the Alps for a week taking in Chamonix, Megève, and stopping in various little villages in between but didn’t really settle on anything. Cham was still top of the list for me but it is also one of the most expensive places on earth so an alternative resort needed to be sought.

We did however come home from our little trip telling all and sundry that we were moving to the Alps asap. The idea was met with a little bemusement and a touch of jealousy from a select few but friends and family assumed it was just another idea that we had but that it would never actually take off.

A year on we got chatting to Cat, a friend of Debs who had just done two seasons in a little village called Châtel. Three kilometres from the Swiss border and south east of Evian Les Bains it looked like a decent location. So we met up with him for a drink and collect a few contact details. A brief beer later and we were kitted out with a handful of people to call and once home I emailed the two on the top of the list.

Within 24 hours we had a reply from both places and a call to Gavin at Bar L’Avalanche secured us a job and accommodation. Parfait!

It’s never easy planning a four-month trip away but eventually we let the flat Brighton quicker than anticipated and with a flight booked for Debs and a ferry booked for me we were off! A friend of mine has always maintained that everyone should do a ski season and, a little late int eh day perhaps, we were about to do it.

I had a couple of events to do in Spain before I could settle in to life as a ski bum. They were completed a little earlier than expected so I hit the road from Girona around 3pm and without looking at the map headed northeast towards Montpelier. My faithful steed is a Smart car. Not a particularly practical vessel to transport my worldly possessions in but it does the job. With a ‘me-shaped’ pocket carved out from all my stuff, the little thing was fairly laden and thus limiting fuel economy. This meant stopping every 150 miles to fill up. Couple that with the French tolls every hundred miles and the trip dragged on a little longer than expected. Thankfully I had stopped at the petrol stations of Spain and stocked up on a few San Miguels for company.

I avoided the centre of Geneva and scooted south of the lake towards Thonons-Les-Bains. I’d done this journey a few months ago when the tour rolled into Evian-Les Bains, so I knew the way. The weather was appalling. It was raining hard and bloody cold. My little car should probably have had new wiper blades two years ago and the limited tread on the tyres wasn’t exactly dispersing the water underneath. One headlight bulb had given up the ghost on the way through France the first time too so visibility was crap, the sound of flapping rubber on glass and the occasional sideways swagger made the journey out of Thonon up towards Chatel a little hairy.

Having left at 3pm I had calculated the trip to take around eight hours. It was midnight by this time and I was running out of patience and more importantly beer. The road from Thonon to Chatel is a windy little number with a sheer drop to the right into a fast-flowing, rather chilly looking river below. Hairpins arrive a little off cue allowing the grip-less beast to weave into the oncoming traffic. It’s a testing drive at the best of times and this was not the best of times.

Through the steamy, streaming window I spotted a roundabout in the nick of time and through the driving sleet saw the sign to Chatel. Breathing a sigh of relief I swung around the roundabout only to see a sign blocking the road saying ROUTE BARREE! Now I‘m no French scholar but that was pretty clear to me. La deviation suggested a gentle canter over La Col De Corbiere and a bright yellow arrow pointed me towards an even smaller road with lower visibility and somehow worse weather. This was the first time on the trip that I decided to dig out the map. When you're so near your destination, tired, out of beer and desperate to start your new life with your girlfriend, a treacherous mountain path isn’t quite what you fancy.

So with the wheel in one hand and the map in the other, I weaved the little car around the tightest hairpins you can imagine and realised that the page I wanted wasn't there. I could see Geneva on page 97 but the adjoining page 98/99 was AWOL. My patience was bubbling over now and I called Debs to see if she could assist my plight. It was gone one in the morning now and the road I was on was horrible. She said that the two maps we had were both in the car so I stopped to have a look. The car was so full I gave up within a minute as it would have meant dismantling the contents of the car that I had painstakingly assembled like a game of Tetris some weeks before. Every square inch was consumed with something or other that I had deemed potentially essential.

Like a typical man, I just decided to drive on. I had no idea where I was going or how long la deviation would be. The sign I had just seen had told me that Chatel was 27km away. That would have been the quick route I figured. This way could have been anything up to and over 50km.

I suspected under different circumstances it would have been a picturesque little track. Climbing up through the French Alps on a testy, windy road through some of the finest natural scenery Europe has to offer. At this time I felt like I was in The Blair Witch Project.

I drove up and up and up through the heavy rain until the rain turned to sleet and then into snow. I was really high up. My ears had popped several times - that’s not saying much as they generally pop when I go up a flight of stairs - but still, I knew I was deep in Haute Savoie now. Whenever I see the words Haute Savoie I think of fondue. I’m pretty sure here in the middle of nowhere on a road no one has ever driven down before, I could smell cheese.

Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly go any higher I turned yet another hairpin and the road straightened up through some delightful chalets perched on the edge of the cliffs. They were all dark with only the occasional porch light for security. I hoped our little place was going to be something like this. As I was dreaming I gathered my thoughts just in the nick of time to see I had run out of road. I was in a cul-de-sac. Had I driven the last forty minutes up this hill only for it to be a dead end? Surely not. I have to confess I let out a little whimper. It was now nearly 2am, I’d been driving for 11 hours – uphill – I was hungry, tired, out of beer and the fuel gauge was now informing me I had two litres left in the tank.

I reluctantly turned the car around and tried to figure out where I had gone wrong. Six or seven miles down the road again I realised I had inadvertently turned up a lane rather than continue on the road to Châtel.

I plodded on through the night until I finally reached the peak of this no man’s land. Just as well as my gauge was now showing a solitary litre left. I gave the engine and petrol supply a little breather and rolled down the other side of the mountain in neutral. Not what your driving instructor would recommend but sometimes needs must.

Half an hour later I finally hit the flat and cruised through a village called Abondance. Looked pleasant enough. Looked like it might have a lot of things here too. Not a lot going on at this time of night/morning though. On I drove passing a closed petrol station much to my anguish. I started climbing again and arrived at a smaller town called La Chapelle. Again it looked quaint and under different circumstances, I would have loved to stop pour un petit café. All I could think of was bed. Not my bed – that was a long way back - any bed.

The fuel gauge was reading 0.0 now but I had no choice but to plod on. Around dozens of bends I went through the early morning until I reached a roundabout with a sign saying Châtel 3km. Hallelujah! I called Debs to relay the good news and she instructed me to carry on and that she’d come out and welcome me to our new home.

Within a few minutes, I could see her in her dressing gown in the middle of the road waving me into the driveway like a pit lane girl. I pulled in to the steep driveway and turning off the engine I let out a huge sigh of relief. 

There were parts of the last few hours where I thought the worst but my faithful steed had battled on through heavy rain, snow, sleet, treacherous roads, hardly any fuel with a full load and a tipsy pilot to bring me safely to my girlfriend and start a new life as a ski bum.

Bless my little car.

CK