Spinning plates and weeping clowns

I’ve often likened my attempts to learn the golf swing with a circus act – the one, that is, with the spinning plates, not the weeping clowns.

The problem has always been, though, that I seem to have to deal with far more spinning plates than you ever see inside a Big Top.

I learn how to deal with one fault and happily move onto the next, then the next. Soon, I’ve got a whole row of spinning plates. But, having taken my eye off the first one, I find it’s no longer in remission. Indeed, it’s grinding to a halt and about crash to the ground.

So I run back to sort it out again. From then on, it’s like one long frantic fire-fight as I run up and down the line. Sometimes I forget about a particular plate altogether - that’s when, against the long-term trend, I go round in 18 over, to the sound of smashing crockery.

So, this morning, a day before my final club competition match of the year – after this, I’ll go back to kitchen swinging, supplemented by Knightsbridge visits – I determine to give all my plates an extra spin before my foursomes match with Dependable Adam.

That also means walking back to the very first plate of them all. The one that invariably lies at the root of my problems. The one where I roll my hands in the takeaway rather than hinge them.

Picture the scene this morning. It is 6.50am and I am standing in my daughter’s room, practising my non-rolling takeaway in front of her mirror while gently trying to coax her out from her duvet and into her school uniform.

I suppose there will always be spinning plates. Perhaps the likes of Luke Donald, Martin Kaymer and Rory McIlroy have their plates to spin too.

The good news keeps on coming, though. I think my plates are spinning much longer nowadays. In time, there should be fewer of them as well. Hopefully Adam and I will not be weeping down our face paint tomorrow...