You're in big trouble though, pal. I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast!

Friday, Friday. Exactly one month until my birthday (:S).

I went to pump at the gym this morning with Mum. It was decent work out. The 8.30am Friday class has only recently been added to the timetable at my gym so there were only 8 of us in the studio. This meant that it was impossible to skip a rep, move up or drop down your weight mid track without everyone seeing. It was a little intimidating but I think it guaranteed that no one was going to slack off! 

After the class was finished a lady about to do the next class helped me pack up my equipment, which was nice. It always amazes me how after pump the people doing Zumba or attack in the next class will storm in so they can start on time, but then just stand around and stare at the people packing up from the previous class. If you help the pumpers pack up, you'll be able to start your class on the dot!

The day became much hairier when we attempted to return home from the gym to find the street we access the house from (not the street in our address, we live on a corner) was completely closed. There were signs, cones, cherry-pickers and work people everywhere. They were fiddling with the power lines, so we had no electricity. I had to have a stone cold shower. Not fun at all. I was just about purple by the time I finished it.

We had no food in the house as the supermarket shopping has become a Friday ritual lately, but we couldn't do that because the closest we could park the car to home was still way to far to walk with all the shopping. Katie, Mum and I ended up going to our usual haunt around the corner for lunch, but they took forever to bring it to us and we only had 15 minutes to eat it before Mum and I had to leave for our golf lesson.

The golf lesson was great. Mum and I have improved so much since our first lesson and it has been so much fun. On Sunday, Mum and I are finally going to attempt to play the course.

Mum's mum, Patsy, was an excellent golfer in her day and still plays now at 82. She was Ladies' Captain at one point at Royal Adelaide, where she still plays. For those unfamiliar with golf clubs, they are a very peculiar beast indeed. 

Many private clubs are a blast back to the 1950s. At Royal Adelaide, for instance, women cannot become full members. The achievements of women players are rarely displayed in the main bar or dining room (men's achievements are usually on honour boards), they will be displayed somewhere but not along side the achievements of the men. 

Social etiquette and social standing are the main game running in tandem with the golf at private clubs. There are many, many written rules regarding what you can and cannot wear, say or do. 

However, there are so many more unwritten rules than written ones.  If one was raised properly, one should just know what kind of shoes are permitted to be worn in each section of the club, which parts one can walk through in playing attire and which parts one must change clothes and shoes before entering. Discipline is formally handed out through warnings, though most of the discipline seems to be administered through gossip. One time my Mum was foolish enough to grace the course in a dress (knee length) and someone told Patsy who told Mum that her inappropriate attire "had been noticed." Pants, shorts and skirts are fine, so long as they are no short than 5cm above the knee) dresses are not. It's all the drama of "Mean Girls", but with slacks, sun visors and seven irons. 

To paraphrase Patsy, most of these golfing institutions wish to ensure that only the "right kind of people" ever receive membership. This is why applications usually need to be sponsored by a number of existing members willing to attest to the quality of your breeding.

Whilst Mum certainly passed Royal Adelaide's genealogy test, she has had many bad experiences being chastised by her mother for not correctly obeying all of the millions of rules and conventions, despite her best efforts. This has caused her to suffer a very specific anxiety and paranoia when at the golf club. This is why she has been too scared to actually play the course, in fear of accidentally breaking a rule whilst doing so and becoming socially blacklisted. 

The club we joined is not entirely "Patsy approved". It is not a Royal or even in the second tier of non-Royal but still approved clubs. We wanted somewhere where the people were friendly, where women can be full members and that was willing to give us a decent deal for joining four people up at once. Patsy would view this club as a "stepping stone club", a club where we learn the game before joining one of the more prestigious clubs. 

None of us are looking to become golfing social royalty, hence being members at one of the "Royals" is not on our "to do" list, but what Patsy doesn't know can't hurt her on this occasion. At this stage I just want to be able to play a full round and get a handicap by the middle of the year. 

There is no doubt the world of golf is a strange one indeed, but somewhat scarily I am really starting to understand why people get so addicted to it. You see, the thing about being related to Patsy that you have to gradually learn to accept it that Patsy genes are dominant ones. Case and point...