We met on a London street
Three, late middle-age men
I was just a bit apart at first, with my notebook
But then I joined Patrick and Gerard
Patrick, pristine in neat Irish plus-four tweed and brogues
Gerard in a well-cut, navy barathea blazer, as befits a Bretagne man
They were old friends, socialites from the Sorbonne
Patrick had bought a place in St Johns Wood
And thought I was just the man to help him renovate it
I told them a story which I had heard on the radio
During my train journey to the capital from the North
Apparently each time a golfer putts a golf ball
His putter is layered with psychic memory
Eventually the energy levels of the layers combine
And now the putter will not putt, however much the golfer tries
