A Curious Morning

A Curious Morning

An insight into an odd early morning routine that I follow on certain days.

Broadcast on RTE Radio 1’s Sunday Miscellany in 2008.

Time to Golf

Although it is nearly two hours before I usually get up on a work day I wake before the alarm goes off and carefully slide out of the warmth of bed. I make my way down the stairs along the path of least creaking and finish with a carefully controlled and well practiced leap from the third last step, finishing on my right foot, my left hand still holding the banister.

At the bottom of the stairs clothes for the day are piled. Each item carefully considered and chosen the night before with due regard to both weather and to mood. This is not a salmon pink day. Salmon pink days are pretty special, and so there is my usual blue. I hope it is not a portent, because I want this day to be special. I would not be doing this otherwise.

Dressed, I go to the kitchen. It is still dark, very dark. Cereal and bowl out at the ready. I push the button on the coffee maker and the red light glows. A tea towel muffles the sound of the water percolating through the coffee. Its finish is announced with a long gurgle and a short hiss. Upstairs my wife and children sleep…I hope….because that is part of the deal.

Breakfast finished I brush my teeth over the kitchen sink. Now for the trickiest bit of this routine. Opening the front door is not a problem. But on the other side I insert the key into the lock, turn it and pull the door slowly and firmly until it closes. With a bit of luck, the hasp slips into the receiver with only the faintest of clicks.

Then I steal my own car. Hand-break carefully released I let the car silently roll down the slope of the short drive. With the engine off the power steering is not engaged and it is difficult to turn the wheel and, for a reason I do not understand, also very difficult to brake. I then turn the engine over and gun it just enough to get myself around the corner when I can finally close the door that I have been holding to stop from flinging open. I’m on my way.

A glow comes up over the rooftops. It is amazing to think that the world has revolved again, that it does this every day. The roads are surprisingly busy with what I imagine are people like myself, recent immigrants on their way to open shops in out of town retail outlets, a few people coming home from the night before – far too old for that now – and others returning from night shifts. The radio plays music you do not normally hear, maybe its music intended for the not normal people.

Then to the rendezvous that had been prearranged via text messages during the week. I meet three other men similarly attired to myself. We shake hands, promise to exchange money and then wish each other good luck. In front of us is the closely cut runway of fairway. Two white bunkers on the right hand side play on our minds. On the horizon is a stick with yellow flag blown stiff in the winter morning breeze. The saucer of green indicated by flagstick presents either a destination of huge improbability and treacherousness, or the landing place for the golf-ball after two shots on this par four. It all depended on ones approach to the game. It always did in this game of the mind, this game of zen, of meditation. Each of us were about to commence our four hour personal odysseys. But for someone looking on we could be just four eejits who were about to spoil a good walk.