I have a confession to make. I cannot resist the temptation of playing away from home, even though I love my beautiful wife. I am a serial adulterer. Surely therapy is available? I’m willing to go into rehab if anyone thinks it will work.

My problem is that I fall in love too easily with nearly every sports facility I meet. Some are prettier than others but I don’t seem to care. None of these mistresses will go out with you for free, so I just write out the cheques and buy my time with all of them.

On Wednesday I was at The Queen’s Club ogling and cuddling the squash, tennis and rackets courts. I crept into bed at midnight for fear of disturbing Patricia, who, as usual, knew only that I might be 'a little late home from work'. Tonight I’ll be dancing on the sleek but austere ballroom floor of Hatfield House Tennis Court with my dear friend, Duncan Hughes, another philanderer who is now semi-cured.

I’ve tried to deny all this to my wife but I came clean this morning. I woke up to a rather coy invitation from one of the most tempting maidens of all – South Herts Golf Club. For the modest price of £880 she will open wide her fairways and snooker room to me. How can I resist? For years I have flirted with her, fearing she may rebuff my gentle overtures. I boarded the train clasping her invitation in trembling hands, scrutinising it for early signs of deception.

I’ve also been lured by the offer of the stunning Braid Society to open her kimono to some of the most breathtaking golf courses in Britain. I am already a member of Old Fold Manor, why do I need multiple sporting mistresses?

The answer is obvious, now even to me. It is simply an addiction. I just cannot say no. Every time the pattern repeats itself. Someone tells me there is a new girl in town. I try to tell myself that I’ll just go and have a look, but then she gets under my skin. The initial tingling turns into a craving, and then my zipper seems to undo itself and I find myself in my playing away kit. I enjoy the sport, then afterwards I write letters begging her not to fall into decay or, even worse, prostitute herself to a wealthy property developer. I plead with her to remain virtuous.

But sometimes she is powerless to resist, and just like the Hendon FC site at Claremont Road, her beauty fades as if Venus and Aphrodite are punishing her for rejecting the only true love she has ever received, the warm, captivating, romantic love of her devoted community.