Indian Summer

So here I am once more. In the playground of the broken hearts. One more experience, one more entry, in a diary self-penned. Ten yards up the bank and I turned off Marillion before I threw myself in the drain.

What am I doing back here, I ask myself, looking at the gin-clear drain. It seemed like a good idea when I set off, loading up the car as a skein of pinks howled overhead.

On goes a yellow rubber fish thing. I have rubber fish things in almost every colour of the rainbow, but I like the yellow ones. You can see them on the retrieve for one thing, speeding up to lift them over the marginal weed growth.

After more than 10 months off, it's nice to be fishing again - throwing a yellow rubber thing two-thirds across the Big Drain.

I even see some pike. Jacks stalk the lure as it comes into view, fins all flared. Little males chasing a gaudy invader off their territory, with no intention off eating it.

I mess around for an hour or so. Just once, a bigger fish lunges and misses leaving a cloud of silt behind it.

When the temperature hits 18C, I hit the road for home. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might get back into this.