It's taken the best part of an hour to lay out his clobber; tackle, bait, rods, flask, an old deck chair and the big sludge-coloured umbrella. He'd had to borrow Jack's wheelbarrow from the allotment.
Choosing a blind wriggling maggot from the bait box he threads hook to line, squinting at the clear fibre. His tongue, held vice-like between teeth and lips, body rigid.
Muttering to himself, or the fish, or the flies, he casts out into the lake. "Fishing is relaxing?Good for your blood pressure? Ha! What would they know."
He bends and fixes the rod to the stand and begins wrestling the deck chair into a useful configuration, cursing its stubbornness before sitting down heavily, peering at the float bobbing lazily on the water.
Time for tea. Cup in hand he takes a deep slow breath, and feels the tensions begin to melt away.
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