Had a rather surreal day yesterday. Decided to waste some cash on a set of 'proper' golf clubs (which involved me shelling out just under $300 (£130 or thereabouts) on a full set of clubs, a bag, and a pull-buggy thing). Of course, you can't just get any old set of clubs for that sort of ready cash - mine are authentic 'Yasuda' clubs, a company so high profile I have been unable to find a single mention of them anywhere despite extensive (>1) searches on Google. While I realise that I am so crap that they will make no difference to my game, I think the fact that every one of my current clubs is a different brand, weight and grip from the rest is a bit of a problem.
While I could have bought a brand I had heard of for the same cash
sans bag and buggy, I doubt better clubs would make me any less shit so I now have a spare set for when anyone visits who wants to play (admittedly, in the last year that's only been Ryan and Dodgy, once, when they were here for my wedding).
While driving back from the shop (The golf-club buying thing was not, in fact, the surreal episode I mentioned before), I received a phone call from Corrine, one of the chicks at the recruitment agency that I originally went through to get the job I'm doing now. The Sunday Telegraph wanted to interview me, and was it OK if she gave them my contact details?
Now, to be honest, the Telegraph didn't particularly want to interview me, they wanted to interview any UK doctor, at all, who was currently working in Australia. Apparently there have been some issues back home with junior doctors not being able to find jobs and so they're basically finding out why so many of us bugger off abroad, with the underlying message that the gummint isn't doing enough to retain these very expensive social investments who can't afford to live in the UK, or something.
It just so happened that the whole article was arranged so last-minute that they couldn't find someone to speak to, and one of the chicks at the recruitment agency that they interviewed suggested me as I sporadically keep them up to date with unsolicited emails about how I still can't surf or play golf.
Doing a telephone interview of sorts was bizarre enough, but they needed a photo-shoot as well. It was now half two, and they wanted a picture of a junior doctor looking relaxed, tanned and sun-bleached, to contrast with the unfortunate sod that stayed in the UK who would be sitting in the pouring rain, stressed out and sun-deprived to the point of appearing blue. The conversation went something like this:
'Would you be able to do a few photos if we can arrange it?'
'Yes'
'When does the sun go down where you are?'
'About two and a half hours'
'Is there a beach near you?'
'About an hour away. It's been raining. It's now overcast and windy'
She had actually picked the worst day of winter so far. Raining all morning, and now looking like an Autumn day in Aberdeen. And two and a half hours to arrange a photographer, get to a 'typically Australian' venue for me to lounge about, looking all relaxed and ex-pat, do a quick photo-shoot, and make the morning edition.
But she was determined, and soon enough Jen and I drove into the nearest 'beach', a man-made one at Southbank, smack in the middle of Brisbane city centre, surrounded by high rises and bustling streets. The photographer called and said to look out for him, he'd be wearing jeans, a brown leather jacket, and have a few cameras round his neck. He even took it in good humour when I suggested that he'd look like a paedophile (there was some guy in the news here recently for taking snaps at Southbank).
There was, by then, a little blue sky, and the sun was just going down, so with a bit of cameratic trickery he picked out the positions and poses that would look like, rather than being cold, wet and blustery, in the middle of the city, and having just raced in from home to try and catch the last of the light, it was in fact a beautiful summer's day, and I was without a care in the world, daydreaming in the midday sun at the Sunshine Coast. With a stethoscope on.
Of course, the first thing that mum said when I told her was that I would never again work in the UK (not that she's alarmist or anything).
Other than that, I have no news.
