So there I am at 07:30 this morning, transported back to 1973, listening to David Bowie in concert, performing Moonage Daydream at four hundred decibels on my new replacement BOSE earbuds. Charlie and I were on the downward stretch towards Castle Cannon, on a [dog] walk of just a smidge under 1.5 miles, when I spied a guy about five hundred yards in front of me faffing about.
"Oh, for FFS! Here we go." I exclaimed. The guy had hopped off his bike, where you can see the turn in the picture. He then proceeded to push the bike forward and then backwards; he got on the bike and got off the bike. "FFS, you're taking the piss!" I breathed under my breath. I quickly opened the camera app and snapped him as evidence because I know some of you are beginning to wonder if I'm making up these encounters.
Now, don't forget, I still have Bowie's (Herbie Flowers) guitar rifting at full volume in my ears.
๐ฒ "You know a tack'n shop mate?"
๐โ๐ฆบ "Sorry?"
๐ฒ "You know a tack'n shop?"
๐โ๐ฆบ "Hang on, let me take my earbud out [๐ง you ignorant caaant]."
๐ฒ "Do you know where there's a fishing tack'n shop?"
๐โ๐ฆบ "OH, a fishing 'tackle' shop."
๐ฒ "Yeah, the one up the road closed."
๐ง WTF? I've lived here nearly twenty-eight years, and there's never been a fishing tackle shop up the town.
๐โ๐ฆบ "No idea, mate, sorry."
I quickly ushered Charlie forward as Eddy Merckx (Look him up) continued to bellow at me as Charlie and I walked briskly on.
There is, or was, a rather large fishing tackle shop about five or six miles away, but I wasn't going to get involved in a conversation with a strange individual at seven thirty in the morning in the middle of a housing estate with the nearest fishing pool five miles away.