Fore!

I've never really liked golf clubhouses, no doubt a result of childhood memories filled with the boredom and constraints of caddying for my golf-loving father. However, while I still harbour no desire to ever tee-off at anything more serious than crazy-golf, I have seen golf clubhouses in a new light.

Yesterday I was at a course to do with the Virtual Learning Environment we're supposed to be working on here. The course and forum was held at Sussex National Golf Course which is somewhere near Hailsham. The ride out there wasn't too bad, despite the early morning rain and the god damned diesel.

Arriving at the actual site was a slightly confusing affair thanks to the signposts which all pointed in different directions but all lead to the same destination anyway. Then I starting asking myself how much money would you have to have to own a place like this? Because, blood hell, it's huge.

And not just big, but swanky too. The design of the buildings from the outside was good enough; reminding me of top quality hotels and restraunts that required booking a month or two in advance. The grounds were impeccably well kept and maintained, the directional indication guides painted onto the tarmac were clear, the area was devoid of cigarette butts and chewing gum, and already there were gardners and groundskeepers at work on the surrounding area.

Then I got inside.

The main hall was bigger than a house. Every floor surface on the ground floor of the lobby was polished marble; it boasted artwork and photographs of famous golfers and the course itself (or should that be a plural? I would not be surprised to learn that this place has more than one course!), there was an electric grand piano off to one side, comfy leather chairs, hanging modern-style glass chandeliers surrounding the evening lights (I can only imagine what the place would look like lit up at night), huge skylights, bigger windows, a welcome desk the length of most corridors, and an elegant sign pointing me in the right direction.

The conference room we had was spacious, featuring a long wall of windows overlooking several holes of the course, an ultra-wide lens projector, air conditioning, central heating, all the works. Big tables, big chairs, glasses and a jug of iced water on every table (don't forget the fruit cordials). These glasses were replaced stealthily without anyone seeing during our mid-morning break and lunch break, the jugs were refilled too and placemats replaced with new, neatly folded ones. Everything was immaculately done. The carpets looked like the had been hoovered and washed only hours before our arrival.

On the way to the toilet I caught a glimpse of a collosal conference room in a circular plan. It was enormous. That was, however, nothing compared to the shock I had upon reached the lavatories.

I expected them to be clean. I have seen a clean mens' room before, they are not common but they do exist. The taps were well designed, they hanged a good distance over the sink and the water pressure was more than adequate. The soap was there, the hand drier was extremely powerful (albeit extremely loud), there were even folded hand towels waiting to be used and a permanently empty wastebin for them to be disposed in. The toilet stalls themselves were spacious, plentiful, clean, and well maintained. I was impressed by everything. But the one thing that astounded me was the toilet paper.

Someone. Had. Folded. It.

That's right. The end of the roll had been gently folded and creased into an arrowhead shape pointing down towards the floor. I can imagine this was done simply because it looks better that way and that a folded end is easier to locate than a flat end. Something like that. I don't presume to be able to see the reasoning in such an act. It surprised me. Caught me completely off guard. I mean, who folds toilet paper?

But my surprise was hieghtened half an hour later when I returned to the same toilet stall to find that someone had come in and refolded the paper.

Now I don't know whether I should feel privaledged to have been in the care of such a service, or if I should feel ashamed that I didn't fold the paper after myself.

Everything else at the conference was background music to the melody of folded toilet paper.