Ever had one of those weeks you're just counting down? When every day seems, somehow, worse than the last? Mine involved a woman who actually seemed to think that student fees were my invention and her five offspring were my creation! Hit on her? With an iron bar, I might have.
Add to that the personification of Spitting Image's John Major ( a monotone delivery of a tale that took an hour I'll never get back).
So, by this morning, it was either get out fishing or start my serial killing career. I packed the DRX river feeder, PXR 4000 reel, 6lb line, 2oz Drennan block end to a size 10.
To the Stour at Sturminster, in the shadow of the Mill there and the edge of a river section where the river narrows dramatically and the wide open becomes a tree lined tunnel in the blink of an eye.
Using a filleting knife (and probably, if I'm honest, imagining it was the John Major tribute act's face), I carved a tin of bacon grill into some big cubes and one of around an inch and a quarter was impaled, held in place with boilie stops and cast out mid river, after the feeder was tooled up with chili hemp.
I have to be honest, it was just one of those days when I just wanted to shut out the world and I whacked the ipod on, with a recent download of Manchester's finest (not difficult, as the Scouse in me would point out), notably Mark E Smith and The Fall. Smith's ranting was just what I needed today and, combined with coffee, did the job admirably. I did note a kestrel nearby but carried on in my own little world. Equally truthful would be to say that it also blocked out the seemingly massive levels of road traffic at my back.
An hour and twenty minutes came and went and nothing approaching a knock had occurred.
Truth be told, I didn't mind too much. The weather was ok, the air clean (somehow) and fish felt like they'd be a bonus.
My mind was wandering when the oft recorded 3ft twitch struck, I was so impressed I half swore in amazement and, being absolutely fair, this beastie (and it was) had hooked itself and took off downriver and across and it did feel solid. The clutch squealed like a stuck pig and the rod bent nicely but left me feeling it could give plenty more.
After, franly, a hell of a fight, I netted a chub I'd have to estimate 2oz short of 4lbs. My biggest for a while and my day changed in one go. I'm never less than amazed by the size of the mouths on chub and this one was no disappointment, mouth on it like Donald Trump and, fortunately, that's where the resemblance stopped. I returned it with a big kick and a splash and it swam strongly away - a decent fish with not a mark on it and probably in the prime of its life.
After a similar gap, ninety minutes, the tip jinked slightly and I was halfway through asking myself if I'd seen it move when it jagged viciously. I struck it a fraction late in all probability. Missed it completely and, this time, I cursed myself with what 20 year Naval men would call Midshipman English.
Not happy, not happy at all. Ho hum. Back out and a whack on left side, chest height. Looking down and around, a dragonfly had collided with my svelte frame. Oh well, something different I guess.
Another half hour and a decent pull that I hit, sans problem. The resistance was ok but didn't feel like the last one and, in short, that was because it wasn't - the culprit was a chub circa between a pound and a quarter to half.
I should have packed a float rod and taken some maggots. Had a feeling the bits might have been queuing up but no, not for me today.
After another ninety or so biteless minutes, the phone rang and the current future ex Mrs H rang to say it was 2 for 1 steak night at a local hostelry that's rapidly approaching cult mythical status. Good. My treat (she said). Excellent! (as they put it in Wayne's World).
All it's cost me is a trip to Morrison's afterwards which is no great stress as it's somehow always more palatable than Tesco's and I DO need sweetcorn and tinned meat anyways.....and prawns..and bread...
Till the next time
