The bright white apex of the Sizewell B nuclear power plant is just a dome, not a sphere.

But as you reach the last nine holes at Thorpeness, half a mile inland from Suffolk’s Heritage Coast, and Sizewell pops up on the horizon, it could be mistaken for the world’s biggest golf ball. Standing on the 10th tee, having already lost five of the high-performance missiles I bought from the professional’s shop, I find it hard not to view it as a mocking logo of my misfortune. It reminds me of being a golf-mad teenager, hunting in the rough for my last ball. I would happen upon a shiny Titleist or Maxfli, only to realise that it was a mere half-ball, probably strategically incised and positioned by my home club’s malevolent greenkeeper, Stig.