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Tench Fishing in Australia.

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I caught my first Australian tench from a blink and you’ll miss it pond, sandwiched between a sports oval and a community centre.   No more than four people could fish at this venue at any one time, and then two would have to share a grassy bank space with the locals that come to feed the ducks and misidentify the other wildfowl that call the pond home. Its waters were dark and stained, its banks lined with invasive willow and brambles. I lost two more fish that day to a snag I later discovered was a flat screen TV, disposed of to avoid tip fees or dumped after a robbery.    That first tench was as small as the water it came from, probably less than 2lb.  It fell to a single grain of corn, fished under a small waggler, and the bite was a classic; the float dipped slightly, rose a couple of inches and then disappeared.  Before the fish broke the surface of the water, I remember wondering out loud if it was green.  It was, and the smile it generated was proba...
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Uncertainty.

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Public transport is an eavesdropper’s paradise.  Disconnected conversations float along train platforms and down the aisle of trams; past coffee hungry commuters and seat searching straphangers.  Some are fragments of conversations between two present people, some are one sided fragments shouted into smartphones.  Platform One, Mont Albert Station. “Where are you? You said you would be here by eight.” (Inaudible phone noises) “Well, that’s a real shame, but you said you would be here by eight!” (Inaudible phone noises) I look at my watch.  It’s a minute past eight.   Tram Route 109, Whitehorse Road. “I hate this new weather app.” “Why?” “What the @#%^ does ‘10% chance of rain’ mean? I just want to know if it’s going to rain or not! We live in uncertain times. - At low tide a strip of rocks bends from the shore, away from the beach and out towards deeper water.  In places ...
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Green

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There are times when all I remember of my dreams is the colour green.   Neither detail nor narrative survives my awakening, but a colour does.   And even that is not entirely true, for no single colour represents the green of my dreams.   I would not be able to stand in front of the walls of colour swatches, beloved by paint manufacturers and often raided by my daughter, and say, ‘That one.   That’s the green from my dreams’.   It’s not the livid lime green of Ash trees, spring fresh, growing on grey northern limestone.   It’s not the sheened English Racing Green of ivy, inch-by-inch destroying my fence, or smothering a building.   It’s not the smoky blue-green of Gum trees, fire prone and sweating oils in the summer sun. The dream green feels calm, but not passive.   It’s alive and moving, but so far it’s never been frightening.   Other things do wake me in fright, spiders mainly or loud voices in darkened rooms; but not colour...
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It's been a long, long time.

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The last time I was here was 26 years ago. I was in my middle 20s, had only just met the woman who would become my wife and the mother of our children.   It was only the second time I had travelled outside of the British Isles. I had no real idea of what I was doing and absolutely no idea why I was going to India.   And even less idea of what I was going to happen once I was there. On the outside I was there to meet two friends, one I still have and one I have lost.   Nicky – dark haired then – less so now, Scottish, lives in the Lakes with a host of children and (in all probability) a decent whiskey waiting in the cupboard.   Mike? Well that’s a different story. I have no idea where he is.   Sometimes you pick things up and sometimes you put things down.   And sometimes you are put down yourself; put down by somebody when they see no utility in carrying you further.   It turns friendship into an object and conversation into scripted theatre....
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