Getting stuck in traffic is never much fun but, occasionally, the sighing resignation that comes from being embedded in a long, snaking line of stationary vehicles offers the opportunity to take stock of life.
The other day, for instance, I came to a shuddering standstill opposite a field of grazing sheep. As the congestion on the road intensified and boredom set in, I slowly found myself becoming entranced by said sheep’s capacity for relentless munching.
In many ways, it seemed like a fairly pointless existence. A baa here, a meh there and on and on the chomping would go.
And then one of the sheep lifted its head and peered across at me, slumped forlornly in a metal box that was going nowhere, and probably thought exactly the same about my own senseless situation.
At that moment, man and sheep seemed to be joined in a mutual appreciation of utter futility. It was quite the epiphany.
Funnily enough, I’ve often thought that reading this column must be a bit like chewing the bloomin’ cud.
You’ll ruminate over it for ages but still won’t have the foggiest idea what I’m havering on about.
Perhaps that’s the reason reader feedback pours in at a furious rate of two letters every three years.
So, let’s move on from these sheep shenanigans, shall we? It was a good weekend for Europe’s golfing flock as Grant Forrest and the indefatigable Justin Rose won on the DP World Tour and the PGA Tour respectively.
Forrest even received a congratulatory phone call from Donald Trump having triumphed at the US President’s Menie links in the Nexo Championship.
Given that Forrest majored in business during his time at San Diego University, maybe auld Donald was looking for some advice on trade tariffs?
It wasn’t that long ago that Forrest and Rose were paired together on the final day of the Genesis Scottish Open at the Renaissance. It was an eye-opening experience for the 32-year-old Scotsman.
In fact, Forrest received such an enlightening education from the veteran Rose, you half expected him to fork out a tuition fee.
“I got an absolute clinic from Justin,” said Forrest at the time. “It was seriously impressive.
“Getting to play with guys like him is always good. You can see why he’s had the success at this level for so long. It’s good to see the standard that he is at, and it can drive you on. But I have work to do.”
At that point of the campaign, Forrest was not firing on all cylinders and golf was a frustrating churn.
A few weeks on and it’s full steam ahead as the former Scottish Amateur champion moves into the closing swing of the season in a rejuvenated fettle. There’s plenty of to play for.
There’s plenty of life in Rose too after knocking off his first PGA Tour win in over two years at the FedEx St Jude Championship. The way some of the commentators were talking about his age, you’d think Rose was as time-worn as Methuselah.
Yes, he’s 45 but, in this game of great longevity, the advancing years are certainly not a barrier to success.
The autumn years can wait. “I still feel like there is that golden summer of my career available to me,” said a chipper Rose, who lost in a play-off at April’s Masters but emerged triumphant from his latest sudden-death shoot-out with J.J Spaun.
Six birdies on his last eight holes was the kind of charge that could’ve been performed on the back of St George’s horse.
When the Ryder Cup stalwart eventually won in the play-off with another birdie his restrained fist pump underlined the significance of the moment.
I thought Rose was actually going to give it a kind of Tattie Marshall ‘get it right roon ye’ salute to a partisan gallery that had urged Spaun along with fevered cries of ‘USA, USA’.
Rose reined it in, but you knew he revelled in shoving a star-spangled spanner into the American works. “There was a lot of cheering for J.J, for the USA, and you've got to respect where you're at,” he said.
A few weeks before what is expected to be a boisterous, barnstorming and barmy Ryder Cup in New York, Rose fired a telling shot across the US bows.
The shackles will be off at Bethpage Park.
In a ding-dong affair in Memphis, meanwhile, watching Rose and Spaun exchange punches with some terrific putting got me thinking about my own ineptitude with the flat stick.
Back in the day, and I’m sure you’ll possibly feel the same, I felt like I was a competent, occasionally inspired putter.
Not as good as my dear mam, mind you, who seemed to knock in everything with unwavering nonchalance at the pitch and putt courses of various coastal holiday towns.
Anyway, these days I crouch over a putt with contorted limbs and twitch like the tappets of an engine before making an unseemly jab that looks like someone tentatively poking a clump of roadkill with a nibbie.
When Tommy Fleetwood rose up quickly after a desperately meek and costly putt on the 17th on Sunday, one could empathise.
Two ahead with three to play, this was another harrowing near miss for Fleetwood, who has six runners-up finishes and 29 top-fives on the PGA Tour but no wins in the US.
In this hellishly hard game of fickle fortunes, nobody ever said winning was easy.
