Teens should be careful not to put their crushes on a pedestal.
When I was fourteen I was quite a good golfer. Naturally, I didn’t dare tell any of my friends what I was up to, in case they thought I had gone senile. In fact, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have been caught dead on a golf course. Tiger Woods hadn’t been invented yet, and as far as I was concerned, the game was for old people and squares.
My parents belonged to a fuddy-duddy golf club outside London, and every weekend, they used to religiously drive up there and play in matches called 'married fouresomes', whatever the weather. They repeatedly asked my twelve year old sister and myself if we wanted to become junior members, and each time we both said ‘no way’. I used to love ironing my hair before waltzing up and down Carnaby Street with my friends every Saturday, so I thought my little universe had ended when I was roped into having lunch with my parents at their stupid club one weekend.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to join?’ my father shouted, swigging back his gin and tonic and spilling soup down his shirt, while saluting a brigadier type whose nose looked like a bulging red sausage.
‘What for?’ I muttered, seething with resentment.
Then, I almost chocked on my frozen prawn cocktail.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I do want to become a junior member after all,’ I hissed.
‘What made you change your mind?’ my father barked.
My sister already knew, for I was staring transfixed through the dining room window in the direction of the first tee.
A pair of gorgeous blond twins were standing there, looking at least aged sixteen in their crazy diamond patterned sweaters and matching trousers.
‘The Pratchett twins have such marvellous golf swings,’ my mother said dreamily, as both of the twins whacked the ball up the fairway, not that I knew what a fairway meant in those days. And, to be honest I couldn’t care less.
‘Do you know them?’ I gasped, thinking my mother wasn’t such a bad old stick after all.
‘Everyone knows them. They’re the best players in the club,’ my father croaked.
I didn’t know one end of a golf stick from another, but all I was concerned about at that moment in time was following the glorious looking twins around the golf course, which I obsessively did for the rest of my school holidays.
Every time I spotted them confidently striding towards the next hole, clutching their matching tartan golf bags, my heart would pitter-patter a little bit faster, and I’d run after them hoping they would notice me. I was hooked, until one of the twins actually deigned to speak to me when I mistakenly hit a golf ball right at his head.
‘You should have shouted fore,’ he shouted pompously, after ducking.
What a drip! I never realised he had such a squeaky voice. I immediately lost interest in him and his twin brother, whom I quickly discovered had an even sillier voice. My parents were disappointed when I gave up golf on the spot. I realised it had been a complete waste of time putting the snooty twins on a pedestal, and shortly afterwards, discovered boys who smoked, listened to pop music and didn’t wear hideous Pringle sweaters.
Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006