At work, my brain is required to be like a bag of golf clubs because it is the eleventh hour on the eighteenth hole. I need a driver for teeing-off difficult discussions in the conference room; that request for more project funding needs to fly down the fairway as if it were an intercontinental ballistic missile. Some sort of sand-wedge will be useful when nefarious colleagues try to trap me in their Powerpoint bunkers. A nine-iron will come in usual for hitting out of the rough when the debate gets heated and my strategy is called into question. And I will very definitely need a simple putter for explaining obvious concepts to stupid people.
The putter is, of course, the club I use the most. Hold this flag, idiot, while I attempt to tap this little ball of information into your tiny hole of a mind. Its five o'clock in the afternoon and I'm already well over par talking with the account manager. I invest in new clubs when I can but he's happy with a rusty old set picked them up for a song at someone's garage sale. Maybe I should walk off the course and just head to the clubhouse? Drown my sorrows in cognac and memories of the halcyon days of razor-creased plus-fours and Argyle sweater vests. Back then, we wore our smart Gatsby caps at a jaunty angle. Now it's logo-emblazoned polyester visors pulled over our furrowed brows.
The other solution is to give up golf altogether and play and different game. One that demands less walking and fewer clubs. Darts, for instance. I only need three darts to throw at the treble twenty and I can drink while I'm throwing them. In fact, I'm told drinking is an integral part of darts and, like billiards, the more you drink the better you play. Now that's what I regard as a good benefits package.
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