Colin Byrne/Caddie's Role:  Sunday last was a day of rest for those of us who failed to make the cut at the 84th US PGA Championship in Minneapolis.

I had spent an anxious Saturday morning having been woken early by the wind rustling my hotel window. I had gone to bed the previous night with the most spectacular light show illuminating my otherwise dull room overlooking the Interstate 494.

The electric storm that interrupted the second round had extended long into the night, making the short trip from the car-park to the hotel lobby a death-defying jaunt through cracks of lightning that filled the sky like massive strobe lights. It seems that Minnesota can experience some extreme weather conditions.

I awoke to an uncertain itinerary on Saturday. My player (Paul Lawrie) had finished his round with a couple of bogeys in the last three holes, leaving us on a total of five over par. The projected cut was plus four. But with high winds forecast there was an outside chance of the cut going to five over.

I had semi-planned a trip to nearby Chicago for a weekend of blues, in the blues capital of the world. Given the floods that ensued after Friday's storm, play did not resume till after nine on Saturday morning.

I watched the "message" (advertisements) interrupted final coverage of TNT on television. I was trying to figure out if it was going to be the blues for me in Chicago or the Hazeltine golf blues in Chaska, Minnesota.

What a terrible way to start the day, watching TV is bad enough, watching golf at that hour of the morning with Bobby Clampett warbling on about how great Tiger's second shot into the 18th with a three iron from a side-hill lie by the lip of a bunker, over trees, through a 30 m.p.h. cross-wind to an uphill green resulting in the ball coming to rest 15 feet from the hole. We know Bobby, the man's not human.

What about the cut? Was I going to be in Chicago or battling the elements at Hazeltine with a golf bag on my back? I caught a glimpse of Briny Baird (an American golfer and not the name of some hole on a traditional Scottish links ) battling his way though the cut. He was shown on TV as a playing partner of the jaunty Fred Funk who was leading at the time (another name almost too unbelievable to be real).

Briny dropped a shot on his 17th hole to go back to plus four. A bogey on the last and my Chicago trip was probably off.

Briny hung on with an up-and-down finish at the last. Four over was definitely the cut. I phoned United Airlines and inquired about the possibility of an afternoon flight to the windy city, it couldn't be any windier than Minneapolis, St Paul, I thought as my curtains flapped uncontrollably across the window.

I could change my ticket all right, but the price was turning me instantly blue. Forget it, I went to the biggest mall in America instead. I did what the Americans do best, consume.

Celebrating a decade of fun with over 520 specialty stores under one roof and Camp Snoopy, featuring over 25 exciting rides including the Ripsaw Rollercoaster and Mighty Ax, the Mall of America has got to be the cultural mecca of Minnesota.

I got as far as the cinema. Having been over-awed by the range, choice and unbelievable discount I shied away to a matinee (there were only 14 screens to choose from).

Dinner with some other PGA failures took care of Saturday.

I drove out into the gentle Sunday morning traffic. I was on my way to get a cup of coffee that would provide me with the necessary morning jolt to start the day.

The standard American coffee rarely does this for me. For those of us not used to directions based on the points of the compass, driving in the US can be a confusing experience. If you have had to ask directions it is an added challenge translating the north and souths into rights and lefts.

Ian Woosnam handed over the keys of his courtesy car to his caddie having arrived at the course just in time for his first round after a few too many east-instead-of-west turns on his way from the hotel. It might be an idea for the rental car companies to leave out one of those extra cup holders and replace it with a compass for us disoriented chauffeurs.

Having safely negotiated my way to Starbucks for my morning coffee I hadn't contemplated the day's schedule yet. I was queuing behind a very large and overweight man, who surprised me when he got round to ordering. He insisted on skimmed milk in his coffee accompanied by a low-fat bran muffin. Come on big boy, how many doughnuts did you scoff before you came out for your calorie-controlled breakfast? A medium-sized cup of Java and the Sunday newspaper would probably take care of Sunday, and every other Sunday in the month for that matter.

At $4.75 a copy, the New York Times is as daunting a pile of print as you are likely to encounter anywhere in the world; I could barely fit it under my arm.

By the time I sifted my way though that lot and got my laundry done back in the hotel, that was going to be the end of my US PGA and it would be time for me to move on to Seattle and the "easy money" NEC tournament where I would definitely not have to fret on Saturday morning about the cut line and what to do if we fell on the wrong side of it - there is none.