I remember her telling me once that rabbits were the gnomes in attendance to the Fairy Queen and that the stars were God's daisy chain. Perfect rot, of course.

Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.

It is the glorious uncertainty of golf that makes it the game it is.

There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.

Mike nodded. A sombre nod. The nod Napoleon might have given if somebody had met him in 1812 and said, "So, you're back from Moscow, eh?

It was a morning when all nature shouted Fore! The breeze, as it blew gently up from the valley, seemed to bring a message of hope and cheer, whispering of chip shots holed and brassies landing squarely on the meat. The fairway, as yet unscarred by the irons of a hundred dubs, smiled greenly up at the azure sky.

She looked like something that might have occured to Ibsen in one of his less frivolous moments.