A JOURNEY of about eight miles from our front door will take you to the front door of the Clinton home.
That is the official family residence in a town called Chappaqua, as opposed to Hillary’s apartment in Washington.
Suffice it to say, it’s a long eight miles.
Less than half the distance will take you to Donald Trump’s front door. Well, sort of.
This is the door of the Trump National Golf Club, as opposed to the pad in Manhattan and the various other properties, including other shrines to golf that make up a collective Chez Donald.
If you go to the club website you see a greeting from the man who is turning American politics on its head.
The greeting states: “Trump National Golf Club Westchester is among the most highly regarded in the state and the sensational clubhouse provides the ultimate setting for special events, member activities and relaxation.
“Located just 30 minutes from Manhattan in the heart of Westchester County, award-winning services and exceptional facilities are the hallmarks of a club that lends itself to today’s families and to future generations – all sharing a common passion for the game of golf and a love of this scenic countryside.
“This memorable club provides more than a membership – it’s a true luxury lifestyle. I look forward to welcoming you to the club.”
Now far be it from me to shrug a shoulder at such an offer but I reckon that the invitation will have to be long-fingered.
That said, I have driven by Trump National quite a few times, though have never driven off its lush tees.
There’s a stretch of road with holes on either side where I reckon that some drivers dilly dally in the hope of being hit through an open car window by a golf ball struck wildly by some moneybags pal of The Donald.
I once did that myself, struck a ball wildly that is, though on a much humbler track than Trump National.
I was actually trying to slice around a gorse bush but instead hit a screamer, straight as an arrow, the ball rising at the end to clear a low stone wall and clatter against a car driving on a road bordering the fairway.
Given that all I could afford was a grovelling apology I stood stock still awaiting my fate.
But instead of screeching to a halt, the driver, a woman, accelerated and took off like she was auditioning for Daytona.
But back to Trump National.
It is a fact that though in the eyes of huge numbers of Americans Donald Trump is not even remotely qualified to be president, he is plugged deeply into the presidential game.
Golf has been synonymous with the presidency since Dwight Eisenhower gave the world the impression that it was actually his main job.
Sure, there are some presidents who are not immediately associated with the game. Think Ronald Reagan and you see a man chopping wood, at least for the cameras.
But Gerald Ford, Bush the elder, Bush the younger, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama have all taken turns at being the nation’s first hacker.
I’m not sure if Hillary Clinton has ever stood on a first tee but her prowess with a six iron is not going to decide the course of her life over the next few years.
Rather, it will be her ability to iron out a winning strategy for a campaign that could end up facing the most surprising party presidential candidate since there was such a thing.
This seems to suppose that Trump will indeed be the Republican nominee.
His prospects either way will be a lot clearer after Super Tuesday’s 11-state blitz.
If Trump triumphs in enough states it could be all over as far as the nomination is concerned.
And then, believe it or not, some serious heavy hitters will be thinking of Donald J Trump as potentially the most sensational golfing president the world has ever seen.
