A soldier at charms
I HATE late winter. Disciplining myself to leave my desk in time to walk the dog before it is suddenly too dark. I failed again this evening, so it was torch in pocket to supplement the weak moonlight in case of emergencies, whilst praying that Freya didn’t scent a rabbit and disappear forever. Watching the days drop away on the calendar, already mourning the imminent end of the shooting season; that same wall calendar telling me that the fishing season is still months away. A sporting black hole for a non-horseman, although magical months for those who are.
It was not always so. Before it got to the point that the price of four plates of chips for the family high on the slopes could pay half that month’s mortgage, February/March meant skiing. It then came to mean an annual trip to the Caribbean. As most of my family thinks that fishing is like watching paint dry I bought a quarter share in
