It’s approximately 11.45 am on Saturday morning. There’s barely a sound except for the loud ticking of the old clock on the kitchen wall. I can see outside into the garden, sodden by the morning’s rain. Autumn’s colours are still here – brown, yellow, amber, red and all the shades in-between. A Bull finch is excitedly clearing up the seeds scattered earlier. There’s a Blue Tit, and another, flying in circles, clowning around, jittery. It’s all pretty idyllic, after all, they call Kent the garden of England, and there are hints of Eden about. It is abundant, healthy, rich, and water oozes from every where – the clouds are heavy with it, the ground is saturated, the rivers full to the brim. Fruit still lies scattered and rotting on the ground. There’s the church bells telling me I’ve been writing for 15 minutes and it’ll soon be time to put our coats on to walk down the country lane towards the village pub and the stories within, though the steak is the the thing I long for. That and to cast a line into the pond on the village’s outskirts. I am, after all, here to fish. But this is no ordinary fishing day, this is the first time I’ll have taken my daughter fishing, so it is her first day. The importance of the day is not lost on me. I am flushed with excitement. The responsibility weighs heavily on my shoulders. Will she enjoy it? Will she catch anything? Will she want to go again? Is this the beginning of a long and fruitful sharing of interest with one’s offspring or will it be so nightmarish so as to leave deep scars that shall remain so raw and aggrieved that angling will never again be mentioned in her presence? There are many questions I can’t answer so I’m trying to clear my head and concentrate on the task at hand. Of course, the problem now is that it has started raining again and, for the moment at least, the fishing is off.