Some of my best friends are golfers. Or at least some of my met-once-at-party acquaintances, and one of my glamorous girlfriends who often parks her husband and strides off to an exotic location with five other clones (thin, neatly coiffed short hair, tanned athletic limbs, good but discrete jewellery, Tod's equivalent footwear, RP and a fondness for Chinos) on a golfing holiday.
In her, I can see the attraction.
Unfortunately, I'm not her.
