Some rules, more applicable to the summer about what happens if you hit a biker (don’t) or if a too-helpful pedestrian takes the disc off one of the many paths designated a water hazard (you save a stroke) have been explained in reasonable fashion. As the round progresses the caddying advice gets more proximate, gamesmanship perhaps, or because the regular breaks (scheduled with alarming regularity) make it a struggle to translate Aussie English into, you know, English.
At one tee the Aussie says the hole (far too far off in the dark to see) is an entry into an igloo. A what now? “An igloo, mate.”
A guess like drive and an uncertain approach later and a round jungle gym which, admittedly, is of igloo proportion and igloo shape (no matter how sieve like its many bars make it) comes into view. As the jungle gym has four openings (like all igloos?) and as the approach to one and not another may set up a long birdie, a ruling concerning any proper entry of this igloo seems worth requesting. From the Aussie the requested clarification draws only a question:
“How do you usually enter a fucking igloo, mate?”
On all fours? With a hot Eskimo chick and a hot space heater? Not game enough to think of these at the time, a rather pedestrian par follows.
Throughout the round, whatever the score, there are repeated calls for symmetry. Everyone at one under? Symmetry. An even spread from three under to even? Symmetry. Six under, four under, three under and one over--final scores that demonstrate wild variation in disc skill and inebriate tolerance? Yes. And symmetreeey!
Course record, by the bye, is a remarkable fourteen under, held by the civil servant, shot in early morning daylight, after a friend’s wedding. And closed, at round's end, is the park side cafe, the de-facto clubhouse that offered the pre-round drinks: Café Vertigo.