I collect golf balls.
I haven't got that many – only four – but I consider them a marvel. Having said that, I don't keep them on display in the house. They sit, rather forlornly, underneath the kitchen window overlooking the back garden.
Which is where I found them.
I have been living in our house for over twenty-five years, and the first ball appeared on the newly-mown lawn a little under a year after I'd moved in. The latest one arrived last Sunday.
They are an enigma that constantly delight whenever I see them.
Because where do they come from?
Has some neighbour been consistently practicing over all that time, producing little sliced chip shots which pitch a ball into our garden every few years or so? You'd think they might pop around to claim them.
Where else? The local park is over four hundred metres away, so you'd think that anyone doing a bit of illegal practice there would have to be belting hell out of them to reach us and also be showering my neighbour's gardens on an equal basis. Which might raise the odd comment or two.
Perhaps birds bring them. Large birds. Or foxes. (I have seen one in our garden and you never know with foxes – they have that rascal look about them.) Or perhaps someone is trying to mess with my head.
If that is the case, then I'm afraid they've failed: those four balls are a constant joy. Give it a few more years and hopefully I might start finding the odd club planted in the soil.
Only then might I take up golf.
Don't do stupid – it's just not clever.