The Word Cloud

This past weekend I decided to enter a fly-fishing competition. It was something I’d never done before and I thought it might be fun.

It wasn’t.

I arrive for the first beat (as they call it), having hastily bought a rod and flies (I was under the impression they fished with real flies, you know, the kind with wings and a symbiotic relationship with dog shit?)

So there I am, standing on the bank, feeling stupid. I have a rod, I have a fishing line, I have a fly – and I have no idea what to do with any of them. I spend half an hour trying to figure it out before a man comes up and strings the line and attaches the fly for me.

‘A Cabela, eh?’ he says, inspecting my new rod.

‘A what?’

‘Cabela.’

‘Uh, no, I’m Christian, actually.’

He picks up one of my flies. ‘A humpty dumpty, woolly mammoth, 007 licensed to kill?’

‘Nooooo, it’s a fly.’  

He shakes his head. ‘Won’t do if you’re wanting to catch trout. You’ve got to use a hairwing dry caddis double barrelled, roly-poly with a cherry on top,’ he says knowingly and stands up with a cracking of knee joints. He notices my new pink flip-flops with the pretty beads on the front and his grizzly eyebrows shoot to his hairline. ‘And you’ll be wanting a pair of wellies too.’

He returns to his spot on the bank still shaking his head. ‘Virgins,’ he snorts as he flicks his line back and forth, back and forth, and drops it gently in the water, as graceful as a gazelle.

‘Well, since I’m married, I hardly think so,’ I reply in a huffy sort of voice and whip my own rod back and forth, back and forth, like an overactive wind-screen wiper. I throw the line as hard as I can; it sails across the brook and lands on the opposite bank.

The man smirks and I have a momentary urge to bash his head in. No-one would notice. The guy already looks as if he’s had a run in with a bulldozer. I try to pull in my line but it’s hooked on something and won’t budge. Swearing profusely, I wade in. The water’s cold and the current is stronger than it looks. I lose my footing and fall on my arse. My new pink flip-flops with the pretty beading on the front shoot off my feet and go floating away.

I didn’t win the competition. I didn’t catch any fish either. Next time I’ll just stick to what I know and go shopping.