A sound thrashing

It had to come. 

Having decided to take nephew A out for mini-putting and dinner to celebrate his 14th birthday, I made one or two rash comments to Mrs. Ottawacker about how she was going to regret the afternoon's sport and was, I might have said, going to get her arse kicked on the green.

It was a close thing. Close, that is, if you subtracted A's score away from mine and compared it to Mrs. Ottawacker's. Close, if you compare it to the distance from the Earth to the Moon. In many other respects, especially, dare I say, the ones that count, it was a sound thrashing.

Oh well. At least The Barley Mow served a good Caesar and a semi-edible burger.