AN EXPLANATION

I must start with an apology to my billions of followers – okay, three – because I haven’t posted much recently. In fact, nothing at all since April 4, 2024. I know the date for certain because that was the day I was knocked off my bicycle. Now I’m not talking here about some minor knee-grazing incident but a full-blown crash that, had there been spectators, would have elicited several shrieks and doubtless a couple of unsettling screams. I was hit from behind by a van doing 50mph. That’s all I can tell you because I can’t remember anything of what happened. I was knocked unconscious and didn’t regain consciousness for quite a few days and missed appreciating a helicopter ride to the Royal Sussex County Hospital in Brighton and doubtless a few pretty nurses. As well as an impressive list of fractures, I sustained serious brain damage (no jokes, please).

I spent the next ten days in the intensive care unit and was, by all accounts, nothing more that a gibbering wreck. From there I was taken by ambulance to the Princess Royal Hospital in Haywards Heath for a couple of months of rehabilitation and intense boredom. I was a thoroughly awkward patient who just wanted to go home. Eventually, after two months of tedium, my persistent grumbling paid off and I was discharged.

On the 75-minute drive home, I was overcome with guilt at having ever moaned at my wonderful wife and two equally wonderful daughters for arriving even just a few minutes late when visiting me. I had no idea they had to come so far. Their very welcome visits not only sustained me but also discouraged me from digging an escape tunnel.

Following my discharge, I swapped an enforced interface with the NHS for the experience of being surrounding by a team of pricey, private, medical therapists. They all had impressive job titles, which were just as spectacular as their bills. Did I care? No, I just passed them quickly onto my Case Manager, who doubtless gasped before handing them over to ‘the other side’; in other words, my would-be assassin’s insurer.

Were the therapies working? There were odd moments of success that I can now just about recollect. One notable moment came at my golf club. One of my therapists told me that playing golf was great for my condition as it was especially good for learning balance. Anyway, after one of our sessions on the driving range he turned to me and said, “There’s one thing I’ve noticed that’s improving.” Anticipating praise for my silky swing or soft draw, I turned to him and enthusiastically enquired what it was. “You’re getting very much better now,” he noted, “at putting the ball on the tee-peg.” You might be surprised when I tell you that I was thrilled. You see, one of my difficulties was with ‘depth perception’. In other words, figuring out how far away objects were. An extreme example might mean I would completely miss a pile of peas perched on my plate and inadvertently jab my fork into a wine glass. Believe me, it’s not as funny as it sounds.

Eventually, I ended the therapies and reached a financial settlement with the ‘other side’ mostly because I was weary of constantly being reminded of the accident.

As many of you will know, I’m more used to writing about fairways and bunkers than I am about road accidents. Which leads almost seamlessly onto my book, “Two Ruddy Ducks and a Partridge on a Par Three”. It’s an amusing collections of 100 spoof letters purported to have come from the pen of a disgruntled golfer. You can either buy the book from all good, bad and indifferent book shops or from Amazon for £9.99. Or, for an extra penny, you can cut out the middleman and buy direct from me. Please just email me (cliveagran@btinternet.com) and let’s do business! I will sign and post off as many copies as you want. Amazingly, there really is no limit. If it helps, think of it less as an extravagance and more as a charitable donation.

My plan is to post one letter a week on here to whet your appetite. I’m also planning to post other stuff to mix it up a bit.