One day we'll swing by Hay again

HAVING missed out on yet another Hay Literary Festival due to the kiddiwinks having to revise for exams, Husb and I have decided we need to set a date.

- CERI GOULD

Even though Husb’s reading tastes trend towards business, How Tos... or sports biographies, visiting Hay during bookish times is on his wish list. He’s keen on self-improvement and loves a good prom, Classic FM and watching all the classic movies. (He bought 17, has watched two. Yes, we're talking DVDs. Yes, this was a long time ago).

Visiting Hay is, in his mind, a week-long foraging trip, picking up celebrity author titbits here and intellectual tussles there, accompanied with a decent red or fizz, some excellent canapés and stunning scenery.

Having been, ahem, to Hay a couple of times, once on a panel (double ahem), I can tell you he’s not wrong. I once wrote an entire column about a visit with a pal who slipped on a prawn vol au vent.

But Husb knows and I know that while his drive for self-improvement is strong, the allure of the golf swing is stronger. Husb is a member of a quiet contingent. He is a compulsive golf swing practiser. No matter the venue. No matter how illustrious the occasion. It’s like a tick. Or an itch. Tourette-like, it cannot be thwarted.

We visited Tate Modern - where Husb admired the latest installations for a good hour. Or so. Then practised his golf swing.

The Globe was an absolute triumph until the tour guide paused her speech - because Husb was practising his golf swing.

St David’s Cathedral? Yes. That also got the, check grip, adjust, twist from the hip, arms outstretched, knee back, soft yet firm at the same time, relaxed yet focused, treatment.