To see oorsels as ithers see us. American Patrick Reed has clearly taken a shine to auld Caledonia. “Back home it’s golf then sit in traffic, a thousand cars and people honking at you but here it’s a great change of pace.” He’s obviously not tried to get into the media car park. Reed’s two week stint here in Scotland has left a lasting impression on him. And the one thing he likes best? “I would say the simplicity,” said Reed to a gaggle of fumbling, bumbling Scottish golf writers as they tried to fathom out how to get the lids off their pens.

Ah, the Postage Stamp, that perilous, 123 yard par-3 eighth hole at Royal Troon that is as mischievous as wee Jimmy Krankie with a whoopee cushion. Its tiny green measures just 420 square feet and somebody with not a heck of a lot to do has worked out that it would take approximately 81,290 actual postage stamps to cover the green. Funnily enough, that’s about the same number the Diarist needs to stick on a jam-packed parcel that contains a vast bundle of monthly expenses.

It’s well documented that the aforementioned Postage Stamp has produced the kind of figures that would usually be invited into the South Ayrshire branch of Weightwatchers. Of course, amid the tragedies there are plenty of triumphs. Gene Sarazen, at a sprightly 71, made a hole-in-one at it in the 1973 Open, about 45 minutes after a 19-year-old DJ Russell had done the same. Russell’s weekend would get more eventful.

“The Midland Counties had a match against the South West at Burnham & Berrow,” he explained. “I’m in Troon having missed the cut so we set off and drove to Somerset for this match. I’m playing with Bob Larratt in foursomes. On the third hole, I hit the tee-shot and he holes his 9-iron for an eagle. On the fourth, Bob hits the tee-shot, I hit a 3-wood onto the green and he holes the putt for an eagle. On the fifth, I hit a 7-iron and it goes in in for another hole in one.” Now that’s a labour saving approach to golf.

Dour, damp, miserable? It’s alright for sun-soaked folk like Phil Mickelson coming over here and saying that golf in lashing rain is ‘fun’. The drookit, downbeat Diarist shuffled away muttering another word beginning with F in response.