No Chicken Town.

Friday drop by to Chicken Town aborted as work had to be done. In my time so I can sack off them hours another day without work on shoulder. Apparently today's Yoots often have a spoon taped  backwards to their screens in their stinking pits to give early warning of olds entering said stinking pits. Applied physics in action.

So, stop off  after sorting out more affairs down in Devil Dog Land. Pre chubbing pint (nice) and  nice but ridiculously  small sausage roll in the Sun. Just enough fennel in the tiny thing to make it acceptable, hot as well.  The measly fuelled open fire at least gave off a pleasant woodsy aroma  to compliment the ambrosial stale beer pub smell we crave. Thank god no reeking fags or latterly vapes. The last pub that I went in that had sawdust on the floor was the Norfolk  Early 80's. It's now an away pub called something else for when the Stone Island clad coke snorters (no, not David Coote) arrive to see their side (usually) beat Col U.

 

Straight to the Banker as I was on curfew, Warby Orange for hook bait, still 3 or so baits from a slice but thicker. Thick enough for another first cast  tap and stab round. Chub make an instant dash for any near bank snag and this one was no exception. Bully tactics won out. Passer by did an ok job of pics, fill in flash helping.

The next banker was mobbed by ducks, so snuck in a gap in the thorn bushes. For the first time fish started topping,  too splashy for roach. lots of taps, considering dropping down to a 10 in case the roach were down low on the white gold when one stuck. Home time, curfew beat with seconds to spare.