Out early this morning for my second writing lesson. Richard has looked at my re-draft of "A Killer Holiday" with more corrections for me to make. It is beginning to become a little annoying as I seem doomed never to arrive at a version he is totally satisfied with, but I should remember Joyce: he would spend hours on a sentence, weeks on a paragraph and months on a chapter of "Ulysses", so what am I whingeing about? One thing I do know: it is gradually being honed into a fine story.
This afternoon I accompanied my mum to her appointment at the local memory clinic where she was interviewed by an Indian psychiatrist with such a thick accent I could scarcely understand her, let alone my mum. Even so, she scored 27 out of a possible 30 on her mini-mental test, failing only to correctly identify the month and to spell "world" backwards, though she did get it right second time round. This is remarkable, because she only scored 23 last time, therefore on that basis she is actually improving, even though that it is supposed to be impossible. I think last time her morale was lower, however, and this may have affected her score on that occasion.
Watching Rory Mcilroy falling apart in his final round at the Masters was one of the most heartbreaking events I have ever witnessed at a sporting event. 4 strokes clear of the field as he teed off, he only needed to shoot 70 or thereabouts to be assured of victory, but straight away he dropped a shot at the first. His confidence thus dented, things went from bad to worse as he choked on shot after shot until at the 12th he 4 putted from barely 25 feet, an unpardonable sin even for a lowly club player. The poor bastard! I hope he can recover from this savage blow to his competitive ego, but sometimes these things can blight an entire career.
Meanwhile I suspect a new word may have entered our language:
"A Mcilroy: to fall at the last hurdle; to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory"
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