High Street Hookers
Gutter-level minds and mentalities some people,but at least the title suckered you in like a mark to a rigged card-game or a flim-flam street-artist's three-cup con.Sorry to disappoint you guys,this isnt a tale of painted jezebels nor the worlds oldest known profession,kind of sad I know for its simply a story of a freshwater fishing-trip with a twist,an unusual location.I could have titled this "A river flows through it"because its more than apt,but Norman Maclean beat me to those words way back in1976 with his novela of the same name,but it would never have worked,I bear no resemblance whatsoever to Brad Pitt and wouldnt look good in cinemascope, nor do I plagiarise,besides,as you read on you realise the title wrote itself.
Saturday morning,boring and mundane,at least when I was a kid we could salivate over Sally James in thigh-high leather boots and fantasise about what might be,nowadays kids telly is naff,no decent tottie on any channel,so its lounge around the house day I figured,WRONG,its visit the wifes mate and her snooty golf-playing husband way out in the commuter-belt sticks,bloody-hell,do I deserve this,its a rhetorical question,please dont answer.I hate the way people faff around when you visit them,the pretence your actually welcome is nauseating,or maybe thats just my imagination?Her under-the-thumb exec hubbie is tediously boring,a ray of sunshine when he mentioned the roe and rabbits on his local course munching the greens,even the kids are at the end of their tether so its the old "Just taking the kids into town to look around" routine and we escape leaving the Mrs chatting to a couple I long ago nicknamed the "TB's" Yup,Mr&Mrs Terminally-Boring.
My kids are dragging their heels,this is deepest-darkest hicksville,one of those twee stockbroker towns,everything is perfect,sans litter,graffiti,no blemishes or stains,I was almost expecting to see Stepford Wives."Wheres the McDonalds dad?"......"Its boring dad"......"Is there a games shop dad?"....."Can we feed the fish dad?"...............This was getting on my ner....REWIND......... "FISH???"A pristine river runs under the high-street,with a bricked-off pool visible next to the pedestrian footpath and seating benches,I can see swirls and ripples dimpling the surface of the water,leviathans are feeding on morsels thrown into the pool by a small prim-and-proper blond-haired child in the company of her father.Rief is leaning against the white painted metal railings surrounding the pond staring into the gin-clear water,I follow his wide-eyed gaze,Trout,resident heavyweights patrolling this unfished virgin pool,snaffling the childs offerings from the pool surface with a confidence reinforced by time cruising this artificial sanctuary.I distinctly remember scanning the elevated rooftops and sharp-edged building corners for bracket-mounted tripods or other surveillance devices,everything was sterile as one would expect from such a place,even before looking I knew there would be no watchers,litter-droppers would be vilified in this hamlet,the concept of neighbourhood watch was hatched at W.I coffee-mornings by residents of such a rural idyll,the human residents had grown as complacent and comfortable as their pool-dwelling neighbours."Can we get these fish dad?"He wanted to try for them as badly as I did "No son,they arent our fish and we dont have permission"Sometimes its permitted to tell children small white-lies and untruthes,leastways thats what I told myself that afternoon to salve my conscience.
That week at work my concentration kept lapsing,I saw those fish,the way they hung on the edge of a current,a flick of their tale changed their position in the water,their vivid crimson-spotted livery totally different from the seemingly oxy-moronic rainbow-trout which I usually target.I couldnt just stride along the high-street,rod in hand,and begin to lure those brownies,could i?An idea began to germinate,and I determined to have those fish,or at least a number of them by hook and by crook,I couldnt resist,I had made myself a pledge and had to deliver.
Tradition decrees game-fish are angled for using exact man-made facsimiles of insect-life indigenous to their particular water-course or habitat,in the second century Macedonian anglers were credited with using artificials to hook fish from the astraeus river but in truth I had never even held a carbon fly-rod never mind flicked a a line with metronomic rhythm,casting to feeding and rising fish,thus I was in awe of even the earliest of game-anglers and their "Fraudful-flies".My methods were simpler,but equally as efficient.
Dark O'clock in the small hours of sunday morning found me striding towards the pool,if your on location with a job to do dont faff-around or hesitate,that attracts attention,do what you have to do and vacate the location.A slight drizzle that not even the high local council-taxes could stop wet the pavements and kept the good-folks indoors.I wore a coat over my waders,the casual observer might have wondered if I wore rubber-trousers for some perverse sort of pleasure,but far worse things occur behind the tightly-drawn curtains of the upper middle-classes,besides i wasnt overly worried as the street appeared totally devoid of life except a nonchalant fox trotting across the road.A small telescopic rod,tiny reel tightly spooled and loaded with line,and a hook as sharp and barbed as a mother-in-laws tongue made up the fishing ensemble,my hook offerings were a choice of fat,cream,maggot pupae or a tiny,elegant,mepps micro-spoon,in my mind this covered all eventualities,providing my quarry co-operated.
Its a surreal experience striking into a decent fish in a forbidden location,especially one as highly-visible as a main thoroughfare,but I snapped back to the here-and-now as I felt the rod cushion the trouts initial lunge and I soon bullied him to the net,and dispatched him as he flapped on the pavement at my feet.Forget the fish,I was the one who was hooked from that moment on,I wanted another,and another.Behind me the brightly illuminated shop-front of a drapers window cast a suffused red light across the water and I saw the line tighten yet again,feeling the tension in my wrist as the rod jumped yet again.
A diesel-engine and head-lights signalled company,no-where to run or hide,just brazen the situation out,the taxi swept by,I gave the driver a wave and a nod,he grinned,I probably wasnt the sort of "Hooker" he normally spotted walking a street in the wee-hours,though silhouetted as I was and bathed in red-light I probably bore a passing resemblance to some.I had finished my game,time to go,bagged-up my catch,collapsed the rod and walked away from the scene,pausing at the corner I glanced back and smiled,I was indeed a high-street hooker!
Anon