I bought a putting mat in December. It dries jumpers now.

It arrived on the 14th of December. I know because I checked the order history, which is the closest thing modern golf has to reading your own diary, and I don't recommend it.

The plan was clean. Eighteen putts a night, every night, all winter. Six weeks of that and I'd walk onto the first green in spring a different animal. I did the maths standing in the hallway with the box under my arm. The maths was beautiful.

And here's the thing, the first nine days were golden. I putted while the kettle boiled. I putted through the football, holing out at the exact moment two hundred grand of striker missed from six yards. I sank the last one each night and went to bed like a man who'd closed a deal. Day nine, I was rolling them dead centre and thinking about entering things.

Day ten, someone needed the hallway.

The mat went behind the sofa, quote, for now. "For now" is where golf equipment goes to change careers. When it came back out in February it had a new job, drying jumpers, and honestly it's superb at it. The width. The drainage. You could not design a better clothes horse if you tried, and PuttOut, to be clear, did not try.

The real confession isn't that I stopped. It's why. The putting was working. Nine days in the stroke had gone quiet and the ball was starting on line, and I could feel it. I didn't quit because it failed. I quit because it was working slowly, and I'm a golfer, and we don't do slowly. We do purchases.

First green of spring, I three-putted from twenty-five feet and blamed the greenkeeper, out loud, in front of a man who has seen my hallway.

The pressure trainer arrives Thursday. This time it's different.