004 – that’s my fly

There’s that famous line – if not famous, then at least beautiful line, in ‘A River Runs Through It’ by Norman Maclean –

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words and the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.

I once did a night school course on fly-fishing. I’m still romantically attracted to the concept, but I can’t bear the idea of torturing a fish for fun. The fish is frightened or they wouldn’t try to get away – and the mighty angler lands the fish, has a photo snapped and then the terrified and exhausted fish is released to group therapy, crisis counseling, post-traumatic stress encounter groups and more psychobabble. No wonder they’re terrified – a quick interlude with a leaded cosh on the back of the head would be a welcome alternative.I don’t fly fish – if it’s not for the table it’s certainly not for fun.

I still like night school classes though and now teach them – but not on fly-fishing.

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