i don’t know about you but i could take a break from the common weekend frame of mind that seems to permeate the world right now. what follows should do the trick at least for a little while and it won’t leave you with either a hangover, bad after-taste or any sticky fluids to clean up.
from the continued series of deliriously thoughtful fly fishing insights from the unique mind of Mark Surtees, enjoy !
Deep in the lower Clitterhouse woods, in a bower of Summer Lilac and Dog Rose, Major Buckram Cropstwattle the aged, but otherwise debonair, doyen of the Finchley Church End and Temple Fortune Cuttlefish Fanciers Bridge club twisted and groaned like a wild woodland spaniel tickled by boars.
Beside him the bounteous, bumptious, Bellini fueled widow Mrs Winky Wilberforce shifted her pulchritudinous rump in an act of voluptuous paisley patterned enticement that no simple Cuttlefish fancier could ever hope to resist.
“Migod Winky” he moaned, clutching the agate grips of the trusty ZA self jerker and blinking helplessly…..”we must stop before I infarct”
With one hand gripping a glistening self whittled weaseling trident she leant across the erubescent Major and slowly slipped the other between the studded straps of his battered old ZA “Pulvermachers Bi-pole electro” Casting Support.
“Stop, Bucky ?…” she whispered close, husky…maraschino sweet, “…nnnooo, my love, we have only just begun.”
Expertly teasing apart the pouch elastics, her every touch peach syrup soft, she probed once again with the cherry tipped trident tines at his pre-stressed Pulvermacher dangling gimbals and tensioned the suspensory appliance silks.
The Major, hypermetropic and pent, could resist no more and he rammed down the belt mounted ZA “Castassist” Ergonergy release plunger with all his remaining power.
Plasma slashed between the positive and negative bolt connectors of the Pulvermachers bi-pole personal teslas.
“AaaWOOOO…FORWARD!!>>>CHARGE THE GUNS!! …” he roared, lurching violently beneath the bucking branches of the ominously creaking Lilac and thrust the crackling self jerker forwards in one final, and enormous, effort.
Afterwards, he span happily from the ZA “Pulvermachers” Dorsal D. Smiling wetly, spent, in a gently falling shower of blue blossom cinders.
“Winky, I say… WHAT A CAST!!…A HUNDRED FOOTER !!…A HUNDRED FOOTER !!..WHAT ?..”
Not too far away, a wild eyed weasel whippet vibrated, tail tucked and a solitary Brent Valley moose considered, just for a moment, making an early start to the annual rut.