Every Sunday I have to accompany Dad on a round of golf.

This is non-negotiable.

Dad argues it’s an opportunity for a lovely stroll in pleasant surroundings, to breathe fresh air and chat. He sees it as a bonding exercise, but I suspect it’s so he doesn’t have to wheel or carry his golf clubs, which are staggeringly heavy. He also hopes I will undergo a miraculous conversion, fall in love with the game and beg for membership at his club.

There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening.

Hitting a small ball great distances into an equally small hole while wearing bad clothing is not my idea of fun. If it’s that important you could just pick the ball up, walk the four hundred metres and place it there manually. And you wouldn’t have to wheel or carry staggeringly heavy golf clubs, which would be a huge bonus.

Dad stuck his tee into the ground on the first hole and balanced a ball on top of it. ‘Number one wood, please,’ he said.

I took the club out of the bag (it’s impossible to do eighteen holes every Sunday and not understand which club is which). I even took off its little furry hat. Why do golf clubs need hats? It’s not like they’re liable to catch cold on wintry days. Perhaps it’s a style thing, in which case it would be better to have tiny baseball caps that you could put on your five iron backwards, to give it a gangsta attitude.

Dad took the club and ‘addressed’ the ball. This has nothing to do with talking to it or even writing down where it lives, but involves him waggling his bottom, looking down at the ball, looking up towards where he’s hoping to hit it, down at the ball again, up again, down again. Sometimes he stops waggling and takes a step back before resuming the position and going through the looking and waggling business again. It takes forever. Finally, he swings the club back and whacks the living daylights out of the ball. I didn’t give him the chance this time.

‘Dad?’ I said. This was in the middle of his backswing. I know I shouldn’t talk in the middle of his swing. Golfers get very annoyed when this happens. It’s bad etiquette, like someone taking a poo on the floor in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I’m not sure if this has ever happened, though very little surprises me anymore.

The ball flew away, way off to our left. This is called a ‘hook’, or it might be a ‘slice’. I can’t remember, but it’s not good. Dad was angry.

‘ROB! Never talk to me in the middle of my swing. You know better.’

I did, but I was in a strange mood. He gave me the golf club and I put its hat back on, tucked it away into the bag and started wheeling the trolley. Dad headed off in the general direction of where the ball had flown. I kept a pace or two behind him.

‘Was it love at first sight when you met Mum?’ I asked. ‘Did you hear music? Did your surroundings melt away as your vision focused on her across a crowded room and did you bid your fluttering heart be still?’

Dad didn’t pause and he didn’t look back.

‘I heard music,’ he said.

‘You did?’ I was thrilled.

‘It was in a nightclub,’ he added. ‘You couldn’t hear anything other than music. Heavy metal, I seem to recall.’

‘Oh.’ I gave this some thought. There’s something spooky about realising your parents were once young enough to go to nightclubs. A shiver ran up my spine. ‘What about your surroundings? Did they melt?’

‘I hadn’t had that much to drink.’

‘Dad. I’m serious.’

It took a while, but I teased the details from him over the course of our eighteen holes, especially since it became obvious that unless he talked I was going to ask him at crucial times, like when he was setting up an important putt.

This is his story.