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I was feeling a little guilty and magnanimous last week. The weather was so inviting I decided to play some golf and my conscience-driven inner voice urged me take Elsbeth along for the ride.

She was a little reluctant, as she had some laundry to do, and some ironing and some knitting, and some dusting. Plus she was planning on lasagna for dinner.

But I sweet-talked her to ease my guilt, by telling her it was her chance to commune with nature, listen to the birds, and marvel at the maples now turning red.

It was nippy as we set off in a golf cart, but she was prepared. She had a wool blanket, a hood and a muffler. I hardly recognized her. She looked like a blue-eyed Eskimo.

Her main duties were to keep score, and to keep an eye on my tee shots, which have a tendency to disappear into the trees.

I also asked her to watch the swing she taught me. She showed me that sweeping the garage floor involves exactly the swing motion I need to keep it in the fairway.

She brought along two of those spill-proof coffee holders, and as we got our golf cart underway, she asked what I thought of the cupholder she gave me. This puzzled me, so I asked what she meant.

She said," Don't you see the purple color? It matches your golf shirt perfectly." This was stunning news and I expressed my gratitude for her thoughtfulness.

Then I took my stance on the first tee, and felt like a king, but my shot hit a tree limb and I felt like a peasant.

I drove us over to where my ball sat on the grass, on her side of the cart, and said, "That was my mulligan. Can you walk over and pick it up?"

" Not a chance, big boy," she said. "The grass is dewy. I am not getting my suede shoes wet." That made sense. Maybe we were going to a party later.

When I finally hit one straight, I yelled, "How was that? I crunched one."

She answered. "Better do it again. I was reading my book."

She should know that I am only entitled to one mulligan per nine. As the official scorekeeper, she felt obliged to tell me that after five holes I had accumulated five sixes. She wasn't being unkind.

In fact, she was amazed at how consistent I was and said," I am proud of you. You are a very sixy guy."

That compliment went to my head and on the next hole, I took a triple bogey for another six.

On the next hole I hit what I thought was a pretty good one, but she shouted, "You are over the hill." I couldn't believe it. A few minutes ago I was her hero.

On the 8th, I hit a high one, and walked over to where she had parked in the sunshine. I asked if she saw where my shot went and she said, "I think it burned up when it came back to earth. But we don't have time to look for it. I have to go to the powder room, and I'm hungry."

I growled and drove over to the fairway fence to grab her a handful of blackberries. My beloved briarpatches were gone.

Then I remembered the creaky old gravenstein on No. 9, and scooted over to pick her an apple. But it, too, was gone. Somebody with a bulldozer had stolen everything edible.

"Is it OK if I play the ninth hole?" I asked. "Then I can take you home and you can cook up that lasagna you were making."

"Sure," she said. "You can't quit now. If you get another six, that'll be 54. Isn't that some kind of a course record?"