Ah, a golfer's life for me. Not. Who was it coined the phrase: "the Summer of Sport"? What summer? Where?

It is 6.55am and I am sitting in the media tent, bleary-eyed, wet and cold and facing the prospect of four hours toil around the Royal Birkdale course in a hair-straightening wind while I follow the progress of Justin Rose, Britain's young hopeful at the Open.

This is the bit you don't see when Gary Lineker (about whom more later) pops up on your television screens, looking preened and pampered. Rose was on the practice grounds about half-an-hour before I sat down to write this blog while I wandered in from our safe house up the road in nearby Churchtown.

Even worse for Craig Parry, Lucas Glover and Simon Dyson, who teed off at 6.30am when the rain was pounding off our kitchen windows. The problem is not that it is so damn early but so wet and windy. One colleague remarked, as we were blown from side to side in the car park, that it verged on the unplayable. Er, not now I am here. They can get on with it.

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So, the dress code for the day is sweaters, full wet trousers, boots and waterproof jacket. Given up on the brolly; it has already taken off without me twice.

The problem for someone like Rose, with genuine aspirations to win this championship, is that he could be out in the gale, with a tee time of 7.36am, while players going out much later could enjoy more benign conditions. All in the luck of the draw, I suppose.

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On our way in, I was pointing out the house belonging to Alan Hansen, the BBC's football pundit and close pal of Gary Lineker, the Beeb's much criticised anchor man for the Open. Hansen's house sits almost at the entrance to Royal Birkdale, an impressive, white, art deco pile with views straight out over the course and on to the sea. Very beautiful.

Not that Hansen gets to be a member at Birkdale. Apparently, he is a member round the corner at Hillside, a nevertheless pleasant course. Not in this wind, though.

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Meanwhile, Lineker enjoys being the centre of attention here. He was swanning around on Wednesday being chauffered on a golf buggy by a BBC flunky, signing autographs and looking just a little smug. He has still not endeared himself to the golf regulars here, though, who find him just too, well, just too smug for their liking.

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No sign of the rest of Team Times yet. Which has left me eyeing a hat left behind by Lynn Truss (for it is she of Eats, Shoots and Leaves fame). She is sitting beside me in the press room and very jolly she is, too. One of the funniest women on the planet, I reckon.

Anyway, in the press kit, handed over to us when we arrived, was the gift of a tie festooned with a design of the legendary Claret Jug. But not much good for the few women who cover the sport. Instead, they were given a white and pale blue Open Championships baseball cap. Lynn doesn't fancy it, but with the rain belting down, think I might be forced to give it an outing. Right, into the breech. Dear, oh dear.

What a strange way to earn a living.