My companion was probably trying to get me to shut up when he offered an explanation for Tiger Woods' transgressions. Fair enough. I was going on a bit about mistresses.
Who knows how many of them might have been in Tiger's little (or maybe large) black book or BlackBerry?
Regardless of the number, there is something sad about anyone wanting to have their moment in the spotlight in relation to someone now portrayed as a prize sharp point, even if there is money in such masochistic madness.
When you come out as a mistress, what are you saying about yourself?
That you have no regard for others' relationships, you are prepared to be identified in terms of those you might have had (previously) secret rumpy-pumpy with, you are gullible and your taste in men is questionable.
And what about those hours waiting by the phone for such texting gems as, we are led to believe, "Quiet and secretly we will always be together".
That one is being claimed by the alleged mistress aptly named Jaimee Grubbs.
Perhaps both she and Tiger felt they had names to live up to.
I don't get it.
Does the excitement of sneaking around make the sex better?
And what happens if he ever decides to leave his wife for you?
Knowing his straying abilities, could you trust him, or do you spend your time in endless turmoil, eagle-eyeing his cellphone for suspicious texts, unselfconsciously doing a dog impersonation by sniffing him all over for signs of stray perfume every time he crosses the threshold, quizzing him remorselessly about the minutiae of his days and cross-checking his responses with everyone who has seen him.
I had barely reached first gear on the subject when my companion gently suggested the boredom of golf had driven Tiger to it.
Let's face it, television coverage of the game makes the America's Cup look riveting, and that's not easy.
When I thought about it more, it occurred to me that golf's image hasn't been tarnished by a surfeit of sexiness.
In New Zealand, the marketing of the Bob Charles shirt with its suggestive action gussets in the 60s was about as good as it got. (The location of the said gussets near the armpits may have limited their sexiness potential, although, as my father was fond of saying "the armpit is the charm pit".)
In order to keep the testosterone under control and improve the game as a spectator sport, the whole tedious business needs to be made both more physically taxing for players and interesting for the rest of us.
Instead of walking from tee to tee or worse, leaping into a golf cart, players should have to sprint to the next hole as soon as all have completed their putts.
There could also be a rule that anyone under par on a hole has to not only run to the next tee but also carry the clubs of anyone on par or below.
Sprint times would be included in the point-scoring system.
Plus-four trousers extending only the traditional four inches below the knee would be compulsory attire, along with hideously designed multi-hued woollen jerseys (a new career for David Bain, perhaps?).
Good taste or snazziness would be banned (sorry, Michael Campbell, but you won't be the first to sacrifice the shirt off your back for a greater good).
Requiring competitors to strip down to Speedos and swim through any water hazards on the course if their ball landed in one would also promote ridicule rather than randiness in any wannabe mistress onlookers.
Bunkers would be used to bring out the creative side of players with everyone required to produce at least one freestyle sand sculpture by the end of a round.
This would also be awarded points by a judging panel and added to the round's score.
On the green there would be marks given for a mandatory taiaha-style performance with the relevant iron before the serious business of putting was attempted.
After the 18th hole, golfers, still in their plus-fours (no lycra allowed), would be required to complete two laps of the course on a bicycle without gears, with all but one of their clubs in a basket on the front.
Simultaneously they would have to carry a used golfball in each cheek and the remaining club between their teeth.
At the end of all this no man would have the energy for sex, illicit or otherwise, and no woman would be interested.
In the hiatus before these changes are introduced, however, golfers' wives may have to endure husbands who suddenly believe they are sexiness itself, a la Tiger.
If putting up with this becomes a nuisance, shouting "Fore!" at crucial intimate moments could prove more deflating and effective than fending him off with a nine iron.
Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
