Guess what now?

We've got the chickens and the allotment. We've got a duck (temporarily). We're anticipacting bees, we've got a greenhouse, a polytunnel, a propagator, a vast array of jam making and brewing equipment. We've even got a sausage maker and pasta machine. So guess what the next thing is?

No.

No. (Be sensible. Where are we going to keep one of those??)

Nope.

Not that either.

Give in?

FISHING!

Oh yes. Andy announces the other day that he is 'interested in fishing.'

I think it was just another excuse to buy books because we've only got about 3,000 books which is never enough, and we can always squeeze in a few more (I have bought 5 books in the last ten days - I've read 2, am half-way through the third, have dibbled in the fourth because it's a dibble in and out of book, and I made a passing start at the fifth today only it's a literary type that requires concentration and when you're being distracted by a duckling swimming in a specially made lido in the back garden, it's probably not wise to start reading a literary tome.)

So the fishing book arrived the day before yesterday. It's an interesting little read, full of pictures of throat-ripping barbs, hooks and weights, terrified maggots who just know they are about to meet their doom in the form of a 26lb pike, of men standing in rivers/ lakes/ the sea looking very butch with their legs akimbo in the latest must-have essential fishing trousers, of rods, nets and curious little knick-knacks that make wise old fishermen say 'Didn't need those in my day.'

And there are intriguing chapter titles like 'Being an all-round angler,' 'Additional terminal tackle', 'Classic lake ledgering' (as opposed to your 'Free-lining and touch ledgering', I suppose), 'Classic River Trotting,' and 'Carrying your equipment', which basically implied 'Buy a wheelbarrow. Put equipment in wheelbarrow. Push.'

Andy looks confused. 'I was planning on using a bamboo cane and a bit of string,' he said.
'You can fling them over your shoulder,' I say. 'Won't need a wheelbarrow for that little lot, will you? You can be like Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Hound, and skip around in shorts and bare feet with worms in your pocket.'

'Finn,' says Andy.

'Okay,' I say, wondering why he's gone all French on me. Usually he just says 'Hush.'

I am a bit worried about the chapter entitled 'Beach Fishing for Sharks,' which is swiftly followed by 'Boat Fishing for Sharks.' These chapters are in the same section as 'Vertical Jigging,' which is what I think I'll be doing if Andy gets anywhere near a shark. There is also a section on fish identification. They all look the same to me. All gasping for breath, blood dripping from their lips, flapping their little fins in a feeble attempt to escape and go home to Mummy Fish and all the little Baby Fish. There is one though, that looks like it deserves to be fried. The Shortfin Mako Shark. Short fin, yes. But bloomin' great black eyes, also, that look like they've seen things in Hades that no shark in their right mind should have seen and lived to tell the tale. They weigh up to 1,120 lbs, so you'd get your money's worth in fish fingers I suppose, but the eye would always be there, following you around the room...da dum. Da dum. Da da da DA DA DA DA DA......DUM!!

'There are trout lakes on the farm where Auntie Pollie lives,' I say. 'You could go fishing with your bamboo stick, string and jam jar and I could have a cuppa and biscuit with Pollie.'

Andy is giving this idea some considerable thought. I hope he sees sense and goes for this option for his first fishing trip. It's nicely inland. The fish are nicely small. And we'd both be safely away from sharks.