I hope you 'int goin' fishin' in this

"I hope you 'int goin' fishin' in this," says the Post Office Lady. "Th'ass rotten out there, that is. Proper rotten." 

There's a long queue in the village post office. Several of its members shake their heads, as they murmur: "Rotten. Proper rotten."

"Moi ole man used to gew fishin' all the time," an old dear behind me shrugs. "Always out in the bad weather, he was. Killed 'im in the end that did."

I press on regardless, confirming my name, address and date of birth as Post Office Lady taps away on her keyboard.

"My ex said he was goin' fishin' all the time too," a young woman towards the back of the growing queue chips in. "Seeing that cow he left me for, he was."

"Cow," the queue chorus, as the Post Office Lady's printer spews out a receipt. "Roight then darlin', that say yew can gew fishin' for 28 days if yew carry ID and they'll send yew yer licence," she smiles. "An' hev a noice day."

I walk out £27 poorer, the proud owner of a receipt for an EA rod licence which entitles me to pursue non-migratory trout, char and coarse fish. For the next 28 days. As long as I carry ID. The village pond awaits.