My Fisherman Friend. © Alex Carr 2008

As a writer I get much of my inspiration from working in my tree house but how odd when the nuts on my Chestnut tree started falling before they were ripe …

I had known Fisher for some time, that’s what I called him because of his obsession with fly-fishing. As I grew to know him more I became quite fond of him and hoped his obsession would change, so that we could have a bit of time together. I wont beat around the bush in telling you I did fancy the jeans off him, I’ll be honest - but being married it had been difficult to invite him home, my wife would have seen through my motive at once and I wanted to keep my diversities secret, it was all part of the excitement and the thrill. But building this tree house made for a place where I could really let off steam, tucked away in a small wooded area in my large garden it would be easy for Fisher to access without being seen. Bearing in mind that as far as Lucy (my wife) was concerned there was no harm in a guy inviting his pal around occasionally was there? - but in the confines of my tree house where she knew I wanted complete privacy so I could progress with my work. But of course Fisher, my enthused fly-fisher, was an exception. I had some fly fishing in mind, but not quite of the same category…

I hoped he would succumb to my invitation to come inspect my place of work and perhaps more too - and I had an idea he would realise exactly what I meant by ‘more!’ - I felt optimistic about it, something about the way he returned my smile, and the time when inadvertently I stroked his thigh, when he flushed up and seemed to want more. Now, with the freedom to get to know him more intimately I would take the next step, the day I went down to the river for my constitutional walk to find the lonely soul fishing there …he welcomed me and I sat beside him as his firm wrists held the rod. “Not doing Fly today, the river isn’t right,” said he - “so it’s back to the basics, how I started really, with a simple fishing rod and maggots.”

As far as I was concerned he was talking gibberish because I couldn’t tell one sort of fishing from another.

“Perhaps you can show me how to fly-fish one day?” I asked - my mind wondering again. I loved the way he held that rod, and sort of tickled the winder handle to let more line out - very suggestive the angle he had it too. As if by instinct I stretched out my hand and let my fingers slide down the shaft.

“You think that may encourage the fish, Pete? “ he asked. “I have heard of vibrations doing the trick - like seagulls dancing on the turf to make the worms think it’s raining, for them to pop up only to get eaten.”

“Something like that!” I replied with a wry smile, at which point the turned to catch my look, at which point I saw that wonderful so attractive flush when I realised he was onto me.

“I do like you, Pete, you are the only guy I can really connect to.”

“And you, Fisher Grant for me too, hook, line and sinker you could say.” For a while we just sat there and I sort of got the mode of this fishing appeal.