‘You can’t play’ says the wife from somewhere underneath the enormous duvet, ‘it’s far too cold’. ‘Nonsense women’ I reply as I throw back the curtains, ‘It’s blue skies and bright sunshine. What more could I want for a round of golf?’

These words haunt me as I step onto the first tee and a frozen blast of wind has my testicles soaring up into my body cavity like a couple of untethered weather balloons. The blue skies are still there and the course is kissed by bright sunshine, but it’s the sort of weak sunshine that only the northern hemisphere has during winter. Anywhere else in the world these sort of conditions would have people breaking out the shorts and T-shirts but here I am bent over, London’s very own hunchgroin, trying to swing a club while dressed in 14 layers of clothing.

There are a quite a few other people prepared to brave the weather – people who have been looking forward all week to a round of golf and who are damned if they are going to let some iffy weather get the better of them. Everyone is dressed like Scott of the Antarctic and many have some sort of handwarmers in an attempt to prevent freezing to death. One of old boys with handwarmers was once told as a joke by one of the club pro’s that handwarmers only work properly if you expose them to sunlight and now looks like he is either making an invisible pot of tea at head height or is waving his sweetheart goodbye in a 1940’s war film.

I join a couple of other lunatics at the tee box who just happen to be two of the club pros. They wouldn’t be out in this weather if it weren’t for the fact that they have money on this game and neither can back down. They both stripe one down the fairway and I somehow make it on to the short stuff too. An interesting side-effect of all the layers of clothes I’m wearing is that my back swing has been shortened considerably so while I’m hitting the ball a fair bit shorter, I’m also hitting it straighter. So far so good I think as I tighten my belt in an attempt to stop my balls from lurching into my gullet like a set of fleshy gobstoppers.

This short and straight hitting accounts for the fact that I’m on the green in regulation. Due to the sunshine, the fairway is in pretty good nick but unfortunately the green is still in the shade. Now if you haven’t had the pleasure, putting on frozen greens is an art form. You must be able to read not only the normal slopes and undulations but also be able to read whether the icy surface will speed up or slow the ball down. The smoother sections of the green are like… well ice really, while other parts are covered in dew that has frozen into tiny feathers of ice that can grab the ball and make it almost stop dead.

My first putt is straight through a treacherously slick part and a 10 yard putt rockets 20 foot past. ‘Not a problem’ I think and caress my next putt gently, expecting it to sidle nicely up to the hole. Of course it hits a rough patch, the ball leaps vertically off the putting surface like a salmon and screeches to a halt before it’s even moved 6 feet. Resisting the urge to smack the ball back down the fairway I take a moment, clean the ball and line it up for a 14 footer that looks slightly uphill and through a mix of smooth and grabby surface. A gentle tap has the ball rolling directly on line until it magically picks up speed, skids to the right, shoots past the hole and ends up 4 feet away. With a face burning bright red from the combination of anger, embarrassment and wind-burn I stalk to the ball and try to think of all the 4 footers I’ve made in the past. It’s dead straight and this part of the green looks almost normal. ‘I’m calm I’m calm I’m calm’ I tell myself as I try to put a nice stroke on the ball and send it home and end the misery. It all looks good until it picks up a little clump of ice on one side of the ball and turns in a neat little arc, spinning away from the hole like a urethane Wayne Gretzky.

Now at this point, I will admit to having said some nasty things about the ball, the golf course, my ability to putt, the weather and the otherwise fine products of Scotty Cameron. I also may have possibly called into question the parentage of my playing partners when they suggested that I should consider taking up a more appropriate sport like knitting after I finally hole out for a 5 putt.

After the jeers and derision that such a woeful passage of play deserved, I immediately get the chance to redeem myself at the next hole. The others both tug their tee shots into the left rough while I find myself sitting pretty in the middle of the fairway. From a perfect lie I somehow catch a 6 iron so sweetly it’s sickening and watch the ball crawl all over the flag to pitch dead in line and a couple of club lengths short of the hole. Normally this would stop pretty quickly and I would be left with a solid (if all too rare) birdie chance but the frozen green means that the ball bounces off the concrete-like surface and ends up off the back of the green.

This becomes the story of the first 9 holes. Balls fired at the pin ricochet off the green and low runners skitter off the glassy surface time and time again. The pros’ superb wedge game makes up and downs simple but one of them nearly breaks his wrists playing a slightly buried ball out of a frozen bunker while my short game resembles a man digging for gold and my score is astronomical.

At the halfway point my face is raw, my nose a fluorescent red and my voice a couple of octaves higher and I am thinking of jacking it in when I realise that I can feel my hands and feet again. The previously watery sun has suddenly strengthened and we are no longer apparently playing on the tundra but across beautiful green swards under a kind blue sky.

As the warmth creeps into the day and I can shrug off some of my layers, I find that that my shots are going longer but are still going straight. Magically I find that I have driven to the front of a short par 4. A simple chip and I have a tap in for the first birdie of the day and to repair a tiny part of the damage done earlier in the round. An educated power fade gives me another birdie chance which I fail to take and the game is fun again.

Having spent the early part of the morning approaching unforgiving greens, these ones seem to be the size of football pitches. The finesse and delicacy that I needed to get chips and pitches to within 10 feet of the holes at the start of the day now has me less than half that from the pin. Putting across the treacherous ice means that I’m now seeing the hole like the Grand Canyon and can’t seem to miss. It’s impossible to undo all the damage but my score is suddenly respectable rather than embarrassing.

Anybody can have fun golf when the weather is perfect but that enjoyment is a pale thing next to the fierce enjoyment of playing golf in less then perfect conditions. Taking on both the course and the weather and winning, or at least not losing too badly is something I’m sure that the sports Scottish originators would understand. The demands of the game are higher in bad conditions as you need to think far more about playing from less than perfect lies, the effect of the cold and the wind both on the ball and yourself, bad footing and the precision required to play a good shot in all of the above can only make you a better golfer.

‘How was it?’ asks the wife when I get back home, ‘Gosh it was cold out there. I bet you froze your tits off’.

‘Not quite’ I reply, being completely anatomically honest and check my trousers just to make sure.