“Who’s been using my trolley?!” she shouted in a broad Yorkshire accent.

It was the turn of the millennium. Somehow, the planes had stayed in the sky, and there I was, a skinny 16-year-old on my first day as an assistant golf professional at a Midlands golf club.

Fresh out of school, with absolutely no life experience, I was under the impression that adults generally knew what they were doing.

“And who the hell are you?!”

It was a nice, gentle introduction.

She was like the teacher who despised you at school.

“I’m Neil. Nice to meet you.”

“I don’t care who you are. My name is Mrs Grimshaw*. You will never refer to me by my first name. Do I make myself clear?”

Perfectly.

I didn’t know what her first name was, anyway.

Moments later, another member, Mary*, appeared in the doorway.

Mrs Grimshaw’s face lit up.

“Oh, hello, Mary darling! How are Mike* and the children? Are you coming for coffee?”

The transformation was extraordinary. The Yorkshire battle-axe had become Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances.

Mary departed, and Mrs Grimshaw turned back towards me.

Her voice dropped three octaves.

“I’ve got my eye on you.”

I was beginning to wonder whether I’d chosen the right profession.

I’d barely settled into the job before discovering that Mrs Grimshaw was actually one of the more straightforward members.

In fact, I soon learned that two members had been embroiled in a bitter feud for some time (no one is sure exactly how it started), which resulted in one secretly unplugging the other’s electric trolley battery from its charger.

When the man’s unsuspecting rival returned for his next round, he’d make it as far as the sixth hole – naturally, the point farthest from the clubhouse – before his trolley died.

Guess who had to abandon the shop and drive out to rescue him?

It happened repeatedly, and I was losing sales because two grown men were engaged in a war of pranking and one-upmanship.

I was 16; they were considerably older. Apparently, maturity was not guaranteed with age. Navigating this social minefield did prove useful, though: it was my first lesson in golf-club diplomacy.

Some members could be charming to each other while quietly sticking the knife in once the other was out of earshot; others would tell anyone exactly what they thought, then buy a conciliatory pint afterwards. Yet whatever their temperament, there was an almost religious devotion to etiquette, tradition and doing things properly. It is, I came to think, the English contradiction in miniature: private grudges and public politeness, all held together by ritual.

In fact, I quickly realised that a golf club is a microcosm of English society. Doctors, builders, business owners, retired teachers and people whose occupations remain a mystery, given that they seem to play golf every day, all gather to pursue the same frustrating pastime.

Frustration is a big part of the appeal. We are supposed to be a nation of stiff upper lips and impeccable self-control; the golf course, though, grants a rare licence to abandon both. Spend four hours on one, and you will soon be confronted with the full gamut of emotions. I have known golfers over the years who were delightful company off the course but who became utterly miserable the moment they stepped on to the first tee.

One particularly talented golfer could turn even the most beautiful round into a personal tragedy. He thinned a bunker shot on the 15th, sending the ball sailing over the green. Naturally, he blamed the lack of sand rather than his technique.

Within minutes, he stormed off the course, marched into the secretary’s office and demanded a full refund on his membership.

And for heaven’s sake, don’t get him started on slow play.

Not everyone approaches frustration in quite the same way, however. Take Die Hard Sue, for instance. At 81, she’s a former England senior international golfer with a Churchillian refusal to surrender.

An impeccable player, she took to playing worse ball: hitting two shots and then playing whichever ended up in the more dreadful position.

Most golfers spend their lives desperately trying to make the game easier. Sue had found a way of making it considerably harder.

I’ve known Sue for more than 20 years, yet I’ve never quite managed to tell her how much I admire her. Perhaps that’s another peculiarly English trait. We can spend decades in someone’s company without ever telling them what they mean to us.

Thus some members have spent decades playing together without knowing much about one another. They’ll know that Steve can’t chip over a bunker with his sand wedge, likes a sausage sandwich and chips (no salad) and drinks Boddingtons.

Whether he’s married or has children is anybody’s guess.

Twenty years into my career, with considerably more grey hair than when I’d started, I thought I’d seen just about everything golf-club life could throw at me. But one Sunday morning taught me something I’ll never forget.

Ian was one of our most popular members. If his tee time was 8.12, he’d arrive at seven, practising, chatting and generally making the place feel like home.

That Sunday, he was due to play in the semifinal of a pairs competition. His partner waited on the first tee.

Five minutes to go. Then three. Then one.

Ian never arrived.

He’d suffered a massive heart attack during the night.

I remember the silence around the club. You don’t realise how much one person holds a place together until they aren’t there.

Some time later, his widow, Alison, joined our Ladies Academy. She’d never played golf before. We laughed, cried, topped balls and celebrated the occasional decent shot.

Eventually, Alison met Simon, a lovely man who had lost his wife to cancer. Somehow, two people who’d experienced such heartbreak found each other through golf.

A few years later, they won the club’s mixed-pairs knockout competition.

Watching them lift that trophy, I realised how much I’d underestimated what a golf club could mean to someone. It wasn’t always about the golf. Sometimes it was about finding your way back to life.

There’s a moment towards the end of every day when the last groups are making their way down the 18th and the shadows begin to stretch across the fairways. The greenkeepers have long since gone home. (Usually around half two. Part-timers.)

I’ve always loved that time of day. The course grows quiet, the day’s dramas are over and there’s finally a chance to reflect on the extraordinary collection of people I’ve encountered over the years.

I’ve watched a father struggle to hide his emotions as his daughter hit her first proper drive. I’ve seen a husband and wife take one last buggy ride around the course he’d played for 80 years with just an oxygen tank keeping him going. And I’ve met a woman who took up the game at 78 because she fancied one last adventure. I’ve watched members grow old, seen friendships come and go and realised that sometimes the most important part of someone’s day isn’t the golf at all: it’s having somewhere to belong.

At 16, I thought British golf clubs were full of lunatics.

More than 20 years later, I still do.

But I’ve grown rather fond of them.

Even Mrs Grimshaw.

For Christ’s sake, don’t tell her.