I’d like to explain my torn, right-knee ligament as the direct result of landing awkwardly on a snowboard after completing a high tariff, 35-yard high jump incorporating five twists and four somersaults.

That’s what I’d like to. Unfortunately I can’t because it is far divorced from reality. The simple truth of why I am currently unable to do anything more than chip and putt is this: something snapped in my knee as I was putting on a pair of shoes to go outside our house in Worksop last week.

It wasn’t a particularly heroic way to join the golfing injury list, but that’s what happened – bend over, slip boot on, pull and... ouch!

My fitness guru Steve McGregor told me that my kind of ligament problem involves a 7-10 day recovery programme so I’m currently in wet and windy Florida (which is obviously twinned with wetter and windier Nottinghamshire) wondering if I will be able to tee up in this week’s Honda Classic.

So what am I doing in West Palm Beach anyway when I could be sunbathing at home – well the temperature has risen above freezing. My manager Chubby is the reason because he came last year when Ernie Els was defending, took a look at the course and decided it would be right up my street.

Our attempts to get PGA National transplanted into Worksop having failed (should have gone to UPS, I’m sure they would have found a way), I decided to make the trip here instead – dodgy knee and all. I did walk the back nine on Monday (the bit that incorporates the infamous Bear Trap, thanks Jack) and I must admit that Chubby might be right. That’s why I have everything but my knees crossed hoping that my recovery is complete before Thursday.

Back at the WGC Match Play in Tucson, history triumphed over optimism and my run of early exits from that competition continued. I was back home after Nick Watney beat me in the second round long before fellow Englishman Ian Poulter beat fellow Englishman Paul Casey in the final – Poults confirming my pre-event suspicions that he was the player to beat. Nobody did and now no fewer than three players are carrying the flag of St.George close to the summit of world golf.

I’m fourth in the rankings, Poults fifth and Paul sixth, which must be a record for England. It doesn’t seem too many bunker shots ago that I was the only Englishman in the top 100, never mind the top 10.

Which takes me back to West Palm where I came through a thorough grilling from the US Media. Somebody asked why I thought England had so many good golfers at the moment and after giving a few reasons I concluded: ‘Once upon a time it used to be just Nick Faldo, but now we turn up mob-handed’.

My questioner looked alarmed and afterwards I was told that he’d asked somebody why England involved the Mafia in their golf programme. Two nations separated by a common language. But the times, they are a changin’... and for the better.

But not the weather. Conditions on Tuesday were so bad they had to close the course, but it’s set to turn around soon. Hopefully it will be out with the sunscreen and away with the boots... although I’ll have to be careful how I take them off.