My blissful ignorance was fuelled by a selfimposed ban that I've long exercised where golf is concerned. If I pretend it doesn't exist, then like a tree falling in the forest, I don't have to worry about being hit on the head by it.

I'd go so far as to say that where golf is concerned, I am the sporting equivalent of a doddery British judge pondering the nature of Gazza. I had a colleague once who adopted the same approach to Coronation Street, insisting that he'd never viewed as much as a single second of the long-running soap. We didn't believe him.

It would be impossible, we argued, to spend 45 odd years on the planet without your finger ever once accidentally slipping on the remote control. But in a way, I admired his trenchant stance. I've nothing against soaps personally, even if I don't watch them (though over Christmas, I did rekindle my great love for Neighbours, first nurtured during maternity leave. Oh I wish it could be Christmas every day). But I'm all in favour of irrational and unreasonable responses to everyday occurrences that bring a huge number of people a great degree of pleasure.

Which brings us neatly back to the green. I never liked the game, truth to tell, though I can't claim any particular negative experience to validate my opposition to it. As a child, I was brought to Mondello Park, where my favourite doll's face was caved in by the combination of a heaving crowd and a wooden post and I've been cold on motor racing ever since (the stunt driver's abject refusal to drive through the flaming haystacks hardly helping matters), but the worst thing that happened at the Carroll's Irish Open I was dragged along to was that a man in the crowd was hit on the head by a ball. The fact that this was also the best thing that happened that day speaks volumes.

Assured by my father that a repeat performance was unlikely, we simply moaned until he gave in and took us home.

His fault, in a way: by then, we'd notched up too many breathless Sundays in Croke Park to ever appreciate a game that involved a lot of walking and a certain amount of waving.

So that's me and golf for you. Not only do I have no time for it, I'm perpetually disappointed when I hear people have been playing it. I could never again get exhilarated by Alice Cooper announcing that school was out for summer once I discovered that he'd be spending most of his recess time on the golf course. I used to fancy Myles Dungan until I learnt he played golf. It is safe to say that The Husband and I would never have married if he'd played golf.

I once met Paul McGinley and was amazed to discover that he was exactly the same age as I was and had grown up very close to me. How had that happened?

How could somebody on the same radar screen as me and my peers have become a professional golfer in his teens? Didn't they have bullying in his school? Then last week in this very paper, I read about Rory McIlroy, a 16-year-old pro golfer tipped for the top in 2006 by my colleagues in sports.

Sixteen! Couldn't somebody have bought him a guitar? Rory does boast quite a funky haircut, which puzzles me even more and I can only hope that the certain kiss of professional death that being tipped in the Tribune new year sports section brings isn't too painful for him. At least he still has time to get his hands on a CAO form.

But I did say two minds. The amazing, serendipitous and possibly magical thing about this Ryder Cup nonsense is that it's forced the GAA to bring the football final forward a week in September. Normally I'd be furious at a caving in of this nature, but look: the All-Ireland Final this year will be played on the first day of my 40s.

And the Dubs are looking good. And The Tribune sports writers haven't tipped them. Oh, the possibilities.

Out-foxed On a dark night just before Christmas, a fox stole into our garden and took away our much-loved rabbit. I know, in the league of domestic tragedy, that's somewhere below Burton Albion, but we were devastated and Christmas, which he stupidly loved, wasn't the same. The Small People were admirably philosophical about the nature of wild animals and their survival instincts, but the grown-ups wanted to organise a New Year hunt in Tymon Park to cull the bastard and all his kind.

But in the face of renewed debate over What To Get Next (surprisingly, the goldfish continue to thrive but are not regarded as "proper pets") our bloodlust went unfulfilled. So far, The Youngest has spoken the wisest: we can't get another rabbit, she told us, because the same thing might happen again. So our next pet, she tells us, will be a fox. ISPCA, please copy.