In a move of sheer genius the event I hosted this week was a joint collaboration between the Telegraph and Glenmorangie, one of the main sponsors of this year’s Open. As a result an hour of golf chat was followed by a whiskey (or is it whisky?) tasting. Yes. Quite. What an unexpected treat. As a result I am now something of an officianado and even more impressively I managed to restrain myself from asking for a drop of lemonade to pop in my tumbler. My husband was so proud. So that’s all good then.

There was also a chance to have a snap taken with the famous Claret Jug and again, never one to miss a photo opp, I dragged Ken Brown over for a very purple piccie. All in all a great evening all round. To be honest after the weather that the Irish Open threw at me I have generally been overexcited about (a) being indoors and (b) being dry. You see. I am totally low maintenance. Just talking about The Open with the chaps, who were all lovely, has made me even more excited about St Andrews next month. That said before heading to Scotland I have Halle, Eastbourne and then Wimbledon to do, and as we all know, it never rains at the tennis. Oh. Wait.

In other news I went to a splendid wedding in London’s Docklands (hence posh frock piccie). I spent National Running Day mainly sitting at a desk writing about running for my marathon book. That weighty tome should be out later this year and will be a hilarious (I hope) account of how to run 26.2 miles. Believe me if I can do it, you definitely can. I also spent National Doughnut Day sitting at my desk writing and stoically refusing to eat a doughnut. I am totally Teflon. Right all this golf and tennis talk reminds me that I have to go and buy even more wet weather gear for St Andrews (seriously, I’m not kidding). And mentioning a doughnut has also reminded me that I need to buy…. just kidding. *slams door and heads to nearest bakery*

Toodles.

Now you know me. I don’t normally like a moan, but for crying out loud. I also had the dubious honour of being told by Miguel Angel Jimenez that I ….”had to go now…” because my whispered commentary, admittedly right next to the 7th tee, was too loud. Yes, quite. To be fair he had a point. In my admittedly flimsy defence, I was trying to make myself heard above the roar of a mini tornado and had also just been informed that there was a 75% chance of lightening in the air, which is not what you want to hear when you have a giant radio antennae on your head. Still. Onwards and upwards.

Happily I survived more or less intact and actually had one of the most fun work experiences I’ve ever had.  The team was lovely and the golfers a delight to watch and I had the utter joy of commentating on Rory, Ernie Els, Graeme McDowell, Rickie Fowler, Lee Westwood and Padraig Harrington to name but a few. I did take occasional refuge in the studio where I had my photo taken (along with co-commentator John E. Morgan) by one of the official photographers, which I confessed at the time would have been lovely had the weather conditions not left me loooking uncannily like a sheep. Still. As I say onwards and upwards.

The Irish hospitality more than made up for the fact that I was battered by the elements even though I was also spotted out on the course by the same photographer sporting a bobble hat. Yes, I know the sun is out in that shot, but believe me,  even though it was the last day of May, the wind made it feel like mid-December. I think my favourite piccie of my escapades is the one taken of me in front of the stunning Mountains of Mourne, smiling like a fool and blissfully unaware of the storm that that is coming in over my left shoulder. Marvellous. Believe me I now know more than I could have imagined about how to read a weather chart.

Since returning I have invested heavily in several bobble hats in readiness for The Open at St Andrews in July, which knowing my luck, will be anything but balmy. Mind you, after the Irish Open I am, as the saying goes, prepared for anything. Right. I am off to ease my aching limbs with a little sit down in front of the French Open tennis. It’s all preparation for my next sporty trip to Germany in a couple of weeks for the Halle grass court event. Happily for that, I will be commentating under a roof. Happy days…

It takes me right back to the Ryder Cup last autumn where I made my first foray into the world of on-course radio commentary. It was an absolute joy to be at Gleneagles which is undoubtedly one of the most stunning places I’ve ever visited. Notwithstanding the fact that our accommodation was a Snoozebox, (who said TV and radio was glamorous?), it was a week of sheer joy to be marching the fairways of one of Scotland’s finest courses in the company of the best golfers from both sides of the pond.

My biggest challenge was not to fall into a bunker or accidentally kick or step on Phil Mickelson’s of indeed anyone’s ball. Trust me when they are playing four ball golf it is a distinct possibility that you will just forget where the drives have landed, which makes it terrifyingly easy to literally stumble upon a ball. Happily I managed not to do that which was a bonus and I managed to whisper at the right times and not shout at the wrong times. I walked at least 10 miles each day I was there and returned home with the warm glow of a woman who had basked in the golden rays of that rare Scottish gift – a warm, dry autumn week.

Plus the fact Europe duly obliged and won fairly comfortably which was jolly decent of them. I was fortunate enough to follow Justin Rose, Patrick Reed, Ian Poulter, Bubba Watson, Jordan Spieth to name but a few and I don’t mind admitting I developed a faint crush on Henrik Stenson. All in a week’s work. I fear the weather gods may not be so kind to me next week which is fine and dandy. Have wet weather trousers will travel is my sporting motto.

If you’re planning to come along to cheer on young Mr McIlroy, do say hello, especially if you see me trudging the fairway armed with a microphone, a backpack, the radio kit (again glamour all the way) and a smile. I promise to look effortlessly windswept and sun-burnt in one fell swoop and you’ll be able to hear my dulcet tones on the on-course radio, the event website or indeed local radio. Joy. Unbounded. Until then my friends….Fore……

When I wasn’t working, I did manage to see a fair chunk of events with my children, because let’s face it, you don’t often have the Olympics on your doorstep. We took in hockey, basketball, football, road cycling and athletics and loved every minute of it. I cried every day at least once while watching the action, and I found the rowing the most difficult to watch. Maybe it was the sight of grown men sobbing which tipped me over the edge. I did gently chastise John Inverdale at the BBC post Olympics party for making me cry a lot, when he cried on air. Oh happy days. Indeed I still well up when I think about our only excursion to the Olympic Stadium, which also happened to be the last night of competition. And no, it wasn’t the sight of Noel Gallagher eating chips right next to us that set me off. No. It was shouting myself hoarse at Mo Farah in the 5000m and then crying like a baby. I know. I’m a grown woman. I should know better. But I just couldn’t help myself. My kids were slightly disorientated to see mummy and daddy sobbing. I offered comforting words. “They’re happy tears,” I explained. “Happy tears.” Hopefully there will be plenty more of them to come during the Paralympics. Let the games begin…..again.