I've always felt that people should know their station in life, not in terms of wealth or opportunities but a comfortable acceptance of who you are, comfort in your own skin, that sort of thing - unless, of course, you're Charles Manson or Harold Shipman or somebody, then you might wanna think about moving a few apples and oranges around - anyway, I digress.
I have always viewed myself as the favourite plaything of the Gods of Misfortune which, incredibly you might feel, is actually no bad thing. They show no sign of getting bored with me so, despite my best efforts, a long life might just ensue and I might just get to live my dream of being the resident Father Jack in an old folks' home. The perks of this job are that the transgressions are never major and the punishments are bordering on amusing, at times, if one's sense of humour permits. A recent example was winning a hundred quid on premium bonds only to receive an electric bill for £101. 25 the same day. You get the picture, I'm sure....
I'm not naming names here but after yesterday's session I gently ribbed one of my favourite people on here cos I love his sense of humour, his name begins with B and ends in inka and that's all you're getting.
As soon as I arrived at the same Stour peg this morning, a feeling of foreboding doom slowly crept over me. I had transgressed by pointing out that the boy ain't no stranger to a square meal (like myself) but karma was coming and it was driving a fully laden Volvo in the middle lane. When it arrived, it was gonna hurt.
The six foot walk from car to platform safely negotiated, I set up the same kit as yesterday, bar the rod, opting for an MAP bomb / light feeder.
Two red maggots on and the feeder hemped, I'd remembered everything, carefully surveyed the trees for weak branches and wondered how karma would deliver its devastating blow. I didn't have to wait long. The tip slammed round and after quite a tussle there it was - an eel that looked like a snarling rattlesnake dedicated to mashing up the end tackle and covering the captor in filth and slime. It went about 1 and a half pounds and, after a bout of knife fighting, I got my hook back and released said eel which, I am convinced, was laughing at me.
Back out and the tip went again after some ten minutes and, incredibly, another eel. About a pound this time but, by now, I was convinced a certain person had been soap carving them all night and hexed them with a Voodoo curse before turning them loose.
The third cast did not bring a bite and I began to dare hope I had paid my penance. It seems I had as the first of the usual stream of small roach, dace and a couple of babby perch were swung in and the swim built up.
And that was pretty much how it went until a chub a tad over the pound butted in and needed the net, the first since the eels.
Sitting down on my box (and I'm making no connections with anybody here, enough nemesis today) I stuck out my left hand into something furry that shouldn't have been there. It turned out to be a completely black retriever that, although it didn't have fierce red eyes, could have passed for the Black Shuck of legend. I expected it to say it had been sent with a Nottinghamshire postmark but, no, it simply cocked its head in a curious fashion and gave that "got any food" look as dogs are often wont to do. Its reward was a salmon and cucumber sandwich and mine was a munter gudgeon of some 2 whole ounces. Karma in reverse, you see (though I'm not certain the gudgeon bought into that theory).
Eventually, a flustered owner appeared, apologised, clipped Stanley on his lead and dragged him away after telling me I could have "the bloody thing" when I explained he was no trouble. The owner told me he's "bloody useless" and eats like a gorilla. Karma threw me a warning look as my mind raced for comparisons.
The last couple of hours also brought a steady stream of mini customers and one last dace that might have tipped the scales around 7oz but no matter, I'd had an enjoyable day.
I made a note to ask the Gods of Misfortune if the next time they threw me a pair of eels, could I have a blonde, 30 something, female Swedish nymphomaniac whose Dad owned a brewery, standing in them but knowing my luck, I kept silent and left fate untempted.
Stopping at Sainsbury's, I found a new, crazy insane product in the ice cream aisle, Frozen Custard, which they knew was going to be about as popular as syphillis as they'd halved it to two quid.
The Gods were obviously smiling as I paid my two quid, thinking I know a certain person who'd gnash down a packful at the same rate as me but you'll have to guess regarding names. I mean, I don't want to get home to a defrosted freezer or some equally tormenting punishment.
It's a lottery rollover tomorrow so I'm taking no chances. Cheers till Monday.
