Fishing Story
I was thinking of fishing yesterday but the weather was too crap. I decided to read about fishing instead. The fire was set and I put a match to it. It crackled and sputtered into life. I blew some breaths underneath the kindling and the flames grew higher. I sat in the easy chair and opened the bottle of whiskey which sat always at it’s side. I took a swig and rolled the warming liquid around my mouth before swallowing. I opened the first of a large stack of books on the floor next to the chair.
”Tying Flies for Trout Fishing” was the title. I flicked through and read bits here and there. An urgent rap rap rap sounded at the door. I rose painfully from my favourite fireside chair, the hips were getting creaky with age and so I began the hobble to the door somewhat bently gently. I stretched my back and drew myself to my full height and managed the last few steps in a normal fashion. I saw Johns blurred face peering in through the small square of glass. I opened the door and he stood there drenched from his walk over. I let him in. He took off his raincoat and I hung it up in the wash-house to dry. Next he took off his shoes and socks and he put them by the fire to dry out. He removed his dripping trousers and I slung them in the drier for him and switched it on. I found a warm pair of trews and he slid them on and I handed him a towel and he began to mop his hair dry.
He sat himself down into the other easy chair on the other side of the fire and I handed him the whiskey bottle. He had a drink and then placed the bottle between us on the floor.
”Remember that time we were down the Waitote’ River whitebaiting… he said and so started an afternoon of fishing tales, some tall some true. The fire blazed merrily, the whiskey went down well and we were cosy and warm on a too crap day.
