On my way to a rendezvous with the Pike at a local estate lake and what do I espy but a train, well a shunting engine to be precise.
An engine that is forever on time and never late. Well, it would be, because the rails are only about twenty yards long so it's an engine with nowhere to go. It's got a traffic cone too.
I tell the Boss about this bizarre hobby, you know oily overalls, a greasy cap and the smell of diesel.
At this point I am told that it is no more bizarre than coming home after four hours Pike fishing stinking of dead smelt, sprats and sardines having caught no pike at all. Oh, and not forgetting the moaning about hobbits and trees spoiling the fishing too!
Does anybody else out there find that their other half doesn't understand them?
Perhaps I should ask for a train set for Christmas.
Or a Nissen Hut.
Or, better still, a Pike, even a little one.