Chapter 3

I met a guy on the golf course who played to scratch using nothing more than a large weight on the end of broom handle for everywhere except the green, and an old umbrella for putting.

In the nineteenth, I told him how impressed I was.

“I guess it’s because I’m a genius” he replied casually. “I find things so easy that I have to make everything more difficult.”

“Snooker for example,” he continued, “I play with a rubber bung stuck on the end of a metal pole twisted like a corkscrew. I could still beat Steve Davis with one hand tied behind my back. I have to make it difficult, or I get bored.

“Or rifle shooting,” he went on. “I’ve taken the sights off the gun, hold it one handed (left hand even though I’m right handed) sight with my right eye (even though the gun’s in my left hand) and stand on one leg while the rest lie prone to hold the weapon stable. Even then, I could win Bisley whenever I want. Nothing’s any fun unless I can make it into a challenge.”

I was impressed. “Got any kids?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he replied. “And before you ask...

... Standing up in a hammock.”