The two sides of David

On the golf course, David was as easy-going as they come. Dressed in denims and open necked pullover, with his neat tartan cap and matching cravat, he was style and elegance itself, as he tee-ed off with a swing that defined a perfect arc in the chilly spring air. He was the life and soul of the links, a laughing, jolly soul with a vast bank of Yiddishe jokes that he kept in a memory that was positively Talmudic in its depth.

Yet now, as he sat there in his dark sombre clothing, his light blue couple clipped to the dwindling crop of head vegetation, his face was expressionless. This was a serious occasion, this was the first Seder night. A holy and auspicious occasion. He had set himself up as judge, to ensure that all went well on the night and that there was no repeat of the time, barely two years ago, when Morry started the whole ceremony from the wrong end of the book (the beginning - of course Hebrew books are read backwards from the end!).

David, I suppose, was justified in his self-appointed role. He was, after all, a rabbi.