Now before anybody gets ants in their pants and starts levelling allegations of “environmental vandalism”, I want to stipulate it wasn’t many.

Probably not even nearing the number I sent spearing into the chilly blue waters lapping the Monterey Peninsula, during an enjoyable but sketchy 18 hole excursion around Pebble Beach (CA.,USA) many moons ago.

Granted, on New Year’s eve the drowning of golf balls was deliberate. NEW YEAR BACK TO SCHOOL They were teed up high on the hard sand of Noosa’s North Shore and with driver in hand, direct aim taken at the vast blue yonder. Smash that little white sucker as far out past the breakers as you could. Never to be seen again.

Once again, putting the environmentalist’s minds to rest, pre-strike, a close watch was kept for passing whales to avoid any possible repeat of the infamous Seinfeld incident. Devotees of the show would well remember the episode that had Kramer hitting golf balls into the ocean, when rather miraculously, one lodged in the blowhole of an unsuspecting mammal as it frolicked off the coast of New York.

Yes, at times, golf balls seem to have a mind of their own.

As difficult as it might be to believe, there was genuine purpose in our makeshift aquatic driving range.

As the sun was setting for the last time in 2022, the whole family gathered on the outgoing tide to purge elements of our lives that we didn’t want to carry into 2023.

With a red permanent marker, scribble on the ball something you wanted to leave behind, then with a lusty swing of the club, send it skywards, out into the unruly swell and let it sink to the floor of the Coral Sea. Truly cathartic, and as an added bonus, a game suitable for all ages and stages of life.

She Who Must Be Obeyed had the honour. For her first lash, she scribbled “bad relationships” on the ball – an excellent choice.

Most of us are guilty of at least one of those, an unfulfilling association characterised by one way traffic. All giving, no taking. Hinder without help, emotional risk without reward. Thwackkkk – off it went, a clean strike, perhaps helped by the champagne. She looked instantly lightened.

No 1 daughter went with “comparing myself with others” – nattily abbreviated to fit all the wording on the limited surface area. Impressive – so young and yet so wise.

The shrinks will confirm that social comparison is a curse, a primary source of modern day misery and anxiety. The millions who scour Facebook and Instagram daily, feeling better or worse about themselves based on what they encounter on their timeline – they’re playing a losing game.

Give it a rest people. Do you need reminding – very little of it’s real – just mildly insecure types pumping up their own tyres in pursuit of validation. Extrinsic satisfaction.

As parents, we all hope our offspring discover the futility of constant comparison at some point, but it’s a bonus when the dawning arrives early and independently. Don’t worry about what others are doing or where they are holidaying – play your own game.

The youngest one went with “procrastination” – wasting no time dispatching a badly scuffed Callaway long and straight into the fading light. Another lucid thought. A good percentage of us are guilty of a bit of that, particularly with all the internet-related time-wasting options permanently at our finger tips.

In quick succession, he grabbed another ball – out to sea went “Tik-Tok”. Not a medium I’ve ever indulged in, but I fear in 40 years time, there will be a whole generation of 45 year olds who’ve done nothing in their life, except watch other people doing stupid stuff online. Go figure.

The middle one snaffled the pen and in his left handed, doctor-style script wrote “Poor kitchen effort”. I don’t know whether he was specifically addressing cooking or cleaning. The good news – there’s ample room for improvement in both. I fear he doesn’t even know we have a dishwasher.

With the small cachet of balls heavily depleted, and nobody having even come close to a blow-hole in one, at last it was my turn.

While watching the family fireworks, I’d been quietly mulling over the message on my first missile, trying to come up with something a little sage, even a small corrective measure we might undertake as a family. The kids just love “Dad’s life lessons” – can’t get enough of them.

But my mind kept drifting involuntarily towards the usual array of grumpy middle aged staples – resentment, scepticism, cynicism – those tiresome, negative emotions we know serve us poorly, but for reasons of human fallibility still harbour, at least intermittently.

Draining my second stubbie, I settled on “judgment”. Without being too judgmental, I reckon that’s also reached epidemic proportions, particularly now with the window we have into everybody else’s lives.

I’m guessing the world has always had a healthy sprinkling of “idiots”, but these days, we see and hear a lot more from them. With the chronic oversharing on social media, it’s almost impossible to escape their ruminations.

But judging them? Without knowing their back story, their shaping influences – how does that help anybody? Least of all you. It just tends to make you cranky. For selfish reasons alone, you’re better off just remaining “curious”.

“Wow. People are offended by Coon Cheese – isn’t that interesting. I wonder what they’d think if the met the descendants of the founding father, Edward Coon? I guess we’ll never know. Ray Hadley…I guess he’s paid by the opinion? Tik-Tok – for 14 hours a day? Really? How’d you keep your concentration?”

Yes – onto a bashed up Titliest went the word JUDGMENT, and with an unusually fluent swing of the driver, out to sea it went.

I was planning to hit a second ball, ridding myself in 2023 of “MID WEEK ALCOHOL”, but contemplating the enormity of my first commitment, I decided to hold that one over for next year.

As a medico mate regularly reminds me, “If you get to our age and you’re not grumpy, it just means you haven’t been paying enough attention”.

That’s the key – less judgment, and paying less attention.