TWO remarkable things happened in the week before the first instalment of this series appeared. The first remarkable thing was that I played three competitive rounds of golf in four days, all on top class courses. I have never played so much serious golf.

It started well, a society outing on the Monday of Easter Week and a visit to Pat Ruddy's European Club links course on the shores of Wicklow. With my new official handicap of 20, I set out, in the company of two gentleman from RTE, to tear the course apart.

I didn't score on the first three holes. And I didn't score on the 18th (a fine test of a finishing hole a good drive will put you on the crest of a hill, with a mid-iron down to a small green fronted by an intimidating class of a pond. Anyone shortish off the tee no names, please has an even bigger decision to make).

But somehow, between the fourth and the 17th, I managed to compile 32 points. Indeed, I parred four of the first five holes on the back nine, including the index two 10th. It's a simple game, really.

I was third overall and won my class and so won a prize another first I can say with hand on heart I had never won any prize in competition for the quality of my game, just a few golf balls or a bottle of vino simply for turning up. It was a lovely feeling.

THE next day was a press competition at the K Club one of the finer perks of this gig. It was my first visit to what I now recognise as a truly magnificent course, certainly the best I've played which isn't saying much, but includes the excellent Mount Juliet. Of course, the green fees are astronomical, but if you ever get the offer of a free run at the place, grab it with both hands.).

The closing stretch of 16, 17 and 18 is glorious I even took a peculiar pleasure in dumping three balls in the drink at the 16th. And I was putting for par at the spectacular last, which admittedly isn't the same thing as parring the last, but hey, I'm off 20, that's two points.

I started where I had left off the previous day, eight points after four holes. But then normality returned with a bang. I started pulling everything. I was strinking the ball well enough, but I spent much of the afternoon in the right rough. (By the way, I'm ciotog, in every sense of the word).

In the way of all ignorant amateurs, my self diagnosis for this collapse or return to form was that I had shortened my backswing. Perhaps my teacher, when at last we meet, will take a different view.

The final round literally was Holy Thursday, an outing to The Links, Portmarnock. Do you remember Holy Thursday? Storm force winds? Sheets of rain? I despise golf in those conditions, not least because I can't see through my glasses. I wanted to walk in, but my partners convinced me otherwise. I had II points.

NOW, the second remarkable thing that happened in the week before the first instalment of this series appeared was that I contrived to crack a couple of ribs. The circumstances of the accident are sufficiently embarrassing to ensure that they shall not be detailed here. Suffice to say that it happened Good Friday morning, at home.

I now know the true meaning of frustration. My first lesson you'll meet the teacher next time was scheduled for the next day. Two lessons a week, at least an hour practice every day, plenty of rounds I was salivating at the prospect.

Instead I spent the first few days wondering if I would ever breathe again, never mind play golf. And I sat and watched as three consecutive weeks of constant sunshine taunted me.

Well, the rain is back, and I expect to be as well by the end of the week. I've lost a month on my drive to drop 10 shots then again, that back nine at the European Club, when I must have been playing to about 15, gives me great heart.

I'm off to the practise ground.