Wind lashed Norfolk living up to the shepherd's warning red dawn. Glass reads 29 and 3/4. Weather App says 47 mph. Dodgy car temp reads 11 C. Been given a pass out so too good to miss. One problem. Inner turmoil meant that replicating Lineker's shameless arse wiping along the centre circle turf, or Radcliffe's disgraceful mid marathon street shite was a distinct and present danger.
Not one for quackery usually I readily reached out for the Commander in Chief's little helpers and skipped lunch.
Suitably reassured set off for the syndicate stretch, slid down the track and found the least tree lined spot to park. Short battle across the furrows against Storm Desmond's fury.
First put in with a sardine head right at my feet and the wind rattled tip gave two distinct pulls down. Bait runner ticking and wind into a long, primrose flank twisting right under the tip. Out into the main push and high hand hold required.
Up on the grass, leeches on the flanks. Hooked in the scissors. No need for the tripod and grin for this one.
Reggie Cray showing some interest in the downstream sardine tail so
time to move in to the next glide. Gathering gloom, not even 3pm.
Twich the close in sardine tail into the slack and instant response. Again twisting, turning flash. Smaller this time round and a little less clean, but again scissor hooked.
That was it. Sorry Wak, no pictorial evidence of deep personal shame to share....I will however reveal that I have finally bought some Power Gum for stop knots. Only about 40 years behind the curve. It will be braid next.
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