Mr Indecision me

Tuesday and I had plans. Too many plans. Daytime chub making the most of the river beginning to drop. I wont bore The Loafer and you with my secret cheese paste recipes  but 4 balls in the fridge all ready to go. But what if... everything I own mostly chucked in the charabanc and drive past the Common  to check the tidal level and if maggots were required. Just in case. Can you see where I'm going with this? I'd probably already decided to sack the chub in. Tidal looked ok and the feeder boys were in the lower meadow leaving a nice bend by the pub. A decent pint measure of reds from not Angling Direct in Wrokkers and I was soon unlading the charabanc. Feeder boys had a horrid facer northerly, I didn't on the bend. Went to lock the charabanc, no key. Shit. Stop/start working so keys must be present inside. Searched everywhere. No avail.  In resignation hands in the hoody pouch pocket. (I never put them in there. Well, except the  last time this happened). Of course they were there.

Mixed some dark river groundbait with hemp juice and built up my line on the crease. Feed, trot, feed , trot. Hold back, slow down, run through tide pace. 35 minutes  One crushed maggot. Bored. Cold. Everything back in the charabanc as it had started to rain, Key in (the) right pocket. Pub. Pint and Scampi Fries. Frightfully gentile but oh so gammon ladies lunching. Frinton vibes. Pike above the door.

Past the Mill, slightly less frantic. Back to the bridge pool. Rain, lots of. Wet but determined. Cage feeder on the twisted loop. Awkward lob out under trailing branches. Three reds on a #14 B560. Two swings out, two fish. A dace and this fresher roach than yesterday's effort. Gonna  bag up here surely. 

The fish had different ideas. One nasty, ugly clack-clacky signal cray and that was it. One rod, one plan next time..