It's not the golf I mind, but the talk afterwards

Since it is only the males who have been with me in Scotland, I have spent much of my holiday alone

There are worse fates than being a golf widow like, for instance, learning to play myself and becoming one of those women in thick Harris tweed plus fours who talk knowingly about mashie niblicks. I used to think mashie niblicks were a Scottish culinary delicacy like cranachan or partan bree.

Women who play golf are almost as scary as women who ride, though on the whole horsy ladies have harder faces and bigger bottoms. My friend Jim's Irish wife plays golf, hunts, goes game fishing in Mauritius and is presently in Spain shooting red-legged partridge. I think the last time Maureen wore a dress was when she married Jim, though from the photographs it looks as though she had her jodhpurs on underneath. In Dublin she's the sort of woman they call a fine Mullingar heiffer. Teeing off from the 17th at Muirfield, I once heard someone describe her as a handsome woman. Personally, I'd rather be called a hussy than handsome.

It's the seriousness of golfers that puts me off. They're supposed to be having fun, but they never laugh, rarely smile and always talk in the same hushed tones as if they were in church. Sometimes, if it's a particularly beautiful course or even just to be sociable, I agree to accompany my Tiger husband and Sevvy sons, but invariably become so exasperated by their earnestness that I sneak back to the clubhouse for what my late uncle Archie, no mean golfer himself, called a Harry Squeezers and a bag of crisps.

"Can't you see he's trying to hole that birdie putt,'' my husband hisses furiously when I'm asking a perfectly reasonable question such as, what's an albatross and why do golfers shout "Fore" when they think they're going to hit someone. Presumably it's a shortened version of "For your own benefit I would advise you to move out of the way quickly or else my golf ball is likely to smash your head in."

It would not be an exaggeration to say that my family, the male members at any rate, are obsessed with golf. Since it is only the males who have been with me in Scotland this past month, I have spent much of my holiday alone. I do not complain. I like being alone for it is only when I am alone that I am not being talked to about golf.

When they return at dusk, like weary hunters home from the hills, they discuss at length whether that chip shot on the 11th wasn't just as good as Colin Montgomerie's in last year's Open, or whether the 14th at Glen Cruitan isn't marginally harder than the 7th at Crieff or if the new Dragon's Tooth course at Ballachuilish isn't prettier than the one at Traigh. I have to admit that the Dragon's Tooth is ravishingly beautiful, with views of mountains, forests and lochs to melt the stoniest heart.

After supper the 12-year-old hunches over the computer playing his wicked new game called "Build Your Own Golf Course" – much more fun, he says, than the football game that lets him manage his own Premier Division team and buy Argentinian strikers for £75m. As well as designing the ultimate scenic golf course down to the last bunker and pot plant, he can organise international tournaments and create his own golf pro-characters with their own customised clothing, merchandise and even dialogue.

"What sort of dialogue?'' I ask curiously, forgetting my resolution to remain aloof from and uninterested in any conversation pertaining to golf. Judging from the selection on offer, golfers aren't great on rhetoric. "Darn it, now I'm in the trees,'' was one suggestion. "Hey, I'm getting tired of waiting for those bozos,'' was another.

At a certain level the game stops being about sport and turns into straightforward megalomania. Next to the fairways, you are advised to put in condominiums, airstrips, casinos, theme parks and even, if possible, a marina. "A marina universally increases the profit gained from all building lots and also increases the chance that an international celebrity moves into one of your building lots.''

Hey, this isn't healthy. At least chasing round nine holes with a heavy golf bag is fresh air and exercise.

Yesterday they bought me a present, a book called Best Scottish Golf Jokes. Here's one. Unsuccessful golfer to caddy: "You must be the worst caddy in the entire world." Caddy: "That must be just too much of a coincidence."