Tag: Fishing

Stream

Photo by Max Andrey on Pexels.com

When you’re growing up and you’re small and you’re ginger, then you try to cope by being funny and you can always gauge the moment when you actually succeed for some, because someone else – normally much bigger than yourself – will be screaming in your face, tight and red and angry, “Yeh, you think you’re so fucking funny, don’t you?” and you have to try really hard to stop yourself from saying, “Well, now you come to mention it…” and that’s when you begin to associate laughter with pain.  As you get older, it stops to be such a problem: you stop trying so hard because nobody ever finds you even remotely funny anyway – at least not fully clothed – and all in all, you are slightly less likely to find yourself grappling around in the mud with somebody twice your size whilst a crowd has gathered around you chanting’ “Scrap, scrap, scrap…” hoping to see blood, hoping to see snot and tears, hoping not to get collared by the dinnerlady.  You may still, occasionally, seek to deliberately amuse, but mostly you just trip over your own feet…

Now, I thought about this whilst I was having a shower and I was adopting the pose that we must all assume, regardless of gender, while rinsing the soap from the undercarriage.  In the shower, there is no other way of achieving this short of standing on your head, and as there is no worse feeling than that of soap lingering around the nethers as the day drags on, it has to be properly rinsed away in the morning.  So, it occurred to me that we must all present this same twisted aspect to the falling water – the intended target being pretty well shaded from downward droplets by head, shoulder, belly and, for some (amongst whom I fear I must now include myself – muscled flesh having long-since morphed into pendulous manboob) – fleshy chest adornments.  It’s a ridiculous, hip thrusty kind of stance, that ensures the descending rivulets have an appropriate route that allows them to wash over the necessary areas, whilst you endeavour not to put your back out and – should you have an un-steamed-up mirror within view – not find yourself laughing at your own reflection.  It is an absurd stance in which, I envisage, we all find ourselves from time to time.  A truly egalitarian posture.  All life should be like it.

I don’t know what it is about a few minutes under the warming spray that brings this habit of maudlin reflection upon me: it’s like feeling sorry for myself, except that, of course, is something that only other people do.  Today I have been reading the latest bestseller by A. Veryfamousperson, thinking to myself “I could write that” and in that moment of indignation I believed that I really could, failing to realise that even if I did, it would make not the slightest difference because, frankly, I am not A. Veryfamousperson and nobody gives a twopenny fig what I have to say.  I could write the Bible and still not find a publisher… 

So, this is the point – wherever I find myself in the day’s downward arc – whether still striking the pose in the shower, sitting on the loo, or attempting to explain to a 6-year old why a laptop keyboard and honey are not compatible, when I realise that it is probably time for me to get a grip and review the current situation:

  • What’s so wrong with a sticky keyboard?  (Well, if you reaaaaaaaaaaally waaaaaaaaaaant to know, eaaaaaaaaaach time you press the letter AAAAAAAAAAA it just keeps on going on aaaaaaaaaaaaand the only thing you caaaaaaaaaaan do is to go through aaaaaaaaaaaaall you haaaaaaaaaave written aaaaaaaaaaaaat aaaaaaaaaaaa laaaaaaaaaaaater time aaaaaaaaaaaaaand baaaaaaaaackspaaaaaaaaaaaace it aaaaaaaaaaaall out.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!)
  • I am alive and, to all intents and purposes, fit and well.
  • I actually quite like playing the clown.
  • Fame and money would only spoil me.
  • I have grown up relatively well-adjusted.  I am blessed with a loving family and far more friends than I actually deserve.

Too many of my best friends have died over the years.  I have lots now, but if I’m honest, few of my own age.  I’m a little scared of making new ones in case I kill them, but I know that I should make the effort.  The problem is, how?  I don’t do many of the things that people of my age are apt to do: I rarely catch the bus; I don’t have an ancient terrier to walk around the block and I don’t even own a cap.  I thought of taking up bowls, but I’m not to be trusted in white clothing.  The problem with almost all suitable hobbies is that they are so much more age appropriate than I am.  I would like to take up fishing, I think.  I would like every single thing about it, except for the catching of fish.  I would be perfectly happy sitting on a riverbank watching the world flow by: the birds, the bees, the fishermen – I often walk along the river banks and despite encountering fishermen all the time, I am not certain that I have ever seen a fisherwoman¹ – the bird-sized dragonflies, the occasional wary rodent, the ducks and the swans.  I would be quite happy eating foil-wrapped sandwiches and drinking over-stewed tea from a flask.  I can talk about the weather with the best of ‘em.  I have a cloth bush-hat that makes me look like one of the Flowerpot Men (I have no idea which one.  There is a link here – you must judge for yourselves).  I am fully qualified in all respects except that of owning a fishing rod: except that of wanting to haul a hapless Piscean from its natural habitat on the end of a nylon line and metal hook… 

I did go fishing quite a bit when I was small, but I never really took to it.  I got bored too easily back then: partly by the inordinate amount of time I had to spend doing so little and partly by having to go home so often to tell my mum that I had fallen in the river again so that she never knew that I had been thrown in by somebody much bigger than me, who clearly didn’t think that I was at all funny.  Fishing trips then, even those in which I managed to remain terrestrial, always seemed to end when the cold had seeped into my bones, and I went home to thaw myself in the few inches of lukewarm water I was allowed.  No showers back then – I don’t ever remember going anywhere with a shower.  Even the kind of hotels we visited on high days and holidays had only a single bath on each landing – so no fear of dislocating a hip whilst rinsing the soap off.  Mind you, being a boy of that age, I didn’t have a particularly close relationship with the soap bar, truth be told.  Infact, the more I think about it, the more I think that might be the real reason that people kept chucking me in the river…

I have developed a stupid habit of leaving things half finished and open on the laptop so that I can return to them when the mood takes me, and thus I have now managed to write and delete today’s post a total of three times.  I have absolutely no idea how this current incarnation compares with its mistakenly expunged counterparts: I remember the first couple of sentences, but I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of what I found to prattle on about thereafter.  It was kind of the idea if I’m honest, but I could certainly have done without the repeats.  If you feel unfulfilled by what you have read above, then I can only seek to assure you that my first three attempts were almost certainly much, much better…

¹I have absolutely no idea why that might be.

Tired, Tired, Tired…

Night

…Not physically, but mentally. Probably more correctly ‘tired of…’ Principally, I am tired of worry. Even more correctly, I am tired of worrying about the fact that the resolution of every problem merely leads, inexorably, onto a new one. This is a weariness of the spirit. The kind of weariness that tells you that thistledown has lost its magic, the Leprechaun has lost its gold, that the unicorn is lost at sea. I cannot sleep myself out of this. The little black-hearted gremlin will nibble away at me for a few more days and, if I am lucky, no-one else will even know he’s been around.

Now, I don’t want you to think that we’re talking proper depression here – on a scale of ‘Sea-Level’ to ‘Mariana Trench’ we’re probably talking trousers rolled up and paddling in the sea. This is the molehill of ennui alongside the Everest of depression, but sometimes I’m a mole and it seems like a big deal. I can’t blame any accident of fate for my current lassitude – I am hostage to circumstance, exactly the same as everybody else, and the possibility of unforeseen happenstance is never actually unforeseen, is it?

There is a pattern: the drip, drip, drip of bitter rainfall on an otherwise sunny day, leading to a leaden sky and a deluge that threatens every shred of equilibrium. The trick is to release the pressure before the levee breaks, and I do that by doing this – I write. At first I write bitterly. The humour might, at this time, find a home on certain YouTube channels, but for me, the only place it belongs is the bin. I never trust what I have written whilst in this malaise, but the shredder is catharsis and, almost inevitably, I find myself upright and balanced, if still wobblingly, upon the great tightrope of life. I have dangled from the cable from time to time, bounced down upon my wherewithal, but I have yet to have a catastrophic fall.

Now, I can, at this point, sense two sentiments wafting from you to me:
1. Why are you telling me this buffoon, what is it to do with me? And
2. You’re not being very funny at the minute, are you gloomy-pants? Bitterly or any other way.
Both perfectly valid contributions to the ‘conversation’.

So, let me explain why I mention this today. Well, I mention this today, because I actually wrote the above yesterday, before taking myself down the stairs for a restorative dram and an hour’s vegetating in front of the telly.

I watched Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse: Gone Fishing (BBC iplayer). I am no fisherman, but neither is Bob Mortimer. Paul Whitehouse is. They have both had major heart procedures and in the program, Paul Whitehouse takes Bob to some of his favourite fishing haunts as a way of getting him out and about. This is the flimsiest premise for a TV series you may ever have seen. It is a little about fishing, a little about health, a little about the glorious British countryside, and a lot about the friendship of two men ‘of a certain age’ approaching their latter years with more joy and optimism than you can shake a stick at. This program should be freely available on prescription for all men over sixty years of age. I have been captivated by the stunning scenery, amused by the stories, and ultimately reduced to tears of laughter by the ‘banter’ of two old friends. This program is a pure joy. For those of you who, like me, find yourself not so much in a trough of despond – more like a mucky puddle of torpor – I cannot recommend it highly enough.