Memo to self (also known as silly old fool). The next time you decide to walk around the 6610m of The Hills course in 35degC-plus of heat, remember to (a) take a water bottle, or two; (b) smother yourself in factor 85 sunblock and (c) pack enough food to last at least several nights in the wilderness.
It's 1.30pm and I've just staggered into the media tent after more than four hours of pounding the well-worn trails outside the ropes, watching a likeable young Texan golfer named Robert Gates maintain his lead on the second day of the New Zealand Open.
Now, I know what you're thinking: half your luck Dave, being paid to walk around a golf course in glorious sunshine, watching how the game should be played, while the rest of your colleagues are back in not-so-stinking hot Dunedin, putting in a proper day's graft at the office.
But, believe me, this is really hard yakka; in fact, it could even be termed life-threatening.
Right now I'm pretty sure I've got heat exhaustion, dehydration, palpitations and lots of other potentially fatal conditions, all ending in -ion.
Oh, and an incurable case of elation.
This is golfing heaven.
I mean, if this is where I'm headed when the good Lord decides I've missed the cut for the last time, then hallelujah brother; mine eyes have seen the glory! (But just not until after the Open, OK?).
Of course, putting one's life at risk for the sake of my masters at the ODT is a personal sacrifice I'm happy to make, especially when it's made a lot easier by meeting meet nice and thoroughly helpful people while tramping through knee-high rough, jumping over bonny wee brooks and burns and ducking under the boundary ropes to take short cuts when the voluntary vigilantes on the designated crossings aren't looking.
Yesterday, during my imitation of Hannibal crossing the Alps (minus the elephants, you understand) I ran into lots of interesting people, once I'd managed to shake off the opposition team from the Southland Times (come on guys, keep up).
There was Tim, from Auckland, who confessed to being a golf addict.
He flew in late on Thursday night and was in some sort of seventh heaven as he joined me in Gates's wake mid-morning.
Being a 10-handicapper also made Tim a very useful companion because, apart from his extensive golfing knowledge, he could also (a) help me with the distances players had left to the greens and (b) always offer me a different estimate on the length of putts.
In fact, that was becoming a real issue for me until we were joined by Philippa, from Christchurch, more of whom later, who offered a female perspective on such matters so I did the only practical thing and just split the difference whenever they didn't agree.
Eventually, as Tim and I got to know each other a little better, he plucked up the courage to confess he used to be an Australian in a previous life, well, 35 years ago.
But that all changed when he came to New Zealand to play rugby, met a good Kiwi girl and eventually persuaded her to become his wife, which was quite a feat apparently because (a) she didn't particularly like Australians and (b) didn't really care much for rugby as well.
Maybe she doesn't like golf that much either, because Tim came south on his own to indulge in his obsession for the game, and he won't be going home until he's played at least three of the local courses in the Lakes District, including Jack's Point, which he will add to the impressively-long list of courses around the world that he's conquered to date.
Nice guy, that Tim.
Good luck at Jack's mate and remember, stay on the fairways or take a lot of spare golf balls!So, while Tim's helpful banter and repartee kept me going when my energy levels ebbed to near empty, it was Philippa who provided the most practical assistance when she plucked from her bag a bottle of sun cream and offered me as much as I could plaster over all exposed parts of my anatomy.
Not exactly sure what prompted such a kind offer; maybe my blood red complexion and convincing impersonation of a man on his knees dying of thirst halfway across the Sahara was a bit of a giveaway and brought out the angel of mercy in her.
In days gone by, Philippa would have been on the other side of the ropes at the Open, acting as a scorer, and having a fine old time close to the action, as she did in 2007 and 2009.
But she left her run a bit late this year, concentrating more on her new duties as club captain of the Shirley Women's Golf Club in Christchurch, so decided to come south with her husband for a golfing holiday instead.
The last I saw them, as we staggered down the hill from the ninth hole, elated at having seen young Mr Gates hole another birdie to go 12-under, she and Tim were heading towards the refreshments tent next to the 10th, no doubt so Tim could get some pointers on the best strategy for tackling Jack's Point, Philippa having played there on Thursday.
And me? Well, I struggled across the 13th fairway, taking a detour to help Australian Gavin Coles search for his missing ball on the jungle-like rough (wouldn't you know it, he found it just a few seconds after declaring it lost, and made a double-bogey 7) and finally stumbled into the sauna-like media marquee.
There my fellow workers sat me in front of a cooling fan, poured litres of water on a fevered and wrinkled brow and listened patiently to rambling tales of survival in the steaming hot wilderness.
But, you'll have to excuse me.
I've got a booking at the local medical centre for several intravenous doses of saline and glucose.
There's two days of the Open to go and I've still got work to do.
