This is the best time of year of xenobiologists, if they just knew it. The stuff that festers in my sinuses during the hay fever season could set a man up for life in their profession. So on Saturday, a blazing hot day, I took myself and all these trillions of repulsive bugs to Grafham. It’s well known that fishing cures hay fever.
There, as I had been meaning to do all along, I pounced on the last remaining Powell rod in the bargain bin. I did not spent these
apparently you were never 12, because that link doesn’t work.
argh
Thank you for restoring your 12-year-old self.
Talking of fishy things – I’m just back from a couple of weeks in Sweden. While there, I discovered that in the lake in which I swam, there may well have been some sort of giant catfish thingy – up to three metres long and 250kg. Nocturnal and voracious, if I’m to believe my host’s translation of the book in which this behemoth was depicted.
Puts a different perspective on midnight skinnydipping, I have to say.
R
Someone with a silly name posted a very long and silly comment. I’ve deleted it.
Rupert, there are things called “wels” in some parts of Sweden, which are catfish as described. There are also Burbot, a sort of freshwater cod, (“lake” in Swedish) which people used to catch from the ice. But they don’t grow nearly big enough.
Yes, looks very much like a Wels. Which can grow even bigger in glorious Russian republic, it says here, up to 5 metres and 330kg (although such stupendous achievements, as so many, may well only have occured under enlightened rule of the proletariat).
As you already know, I am not wedded to the pursuit of the piscine as avidly as some hereabouts. But there’s something deeply engaging about such monsters from the deep.
Good thing Freud and Jung are so out of fashion.
R
So that‘s what’s in Loch Ness!
argh