I confess to more than a pang of jealousy this morning when bumping into a near neighbour on my non-urgent trip (sorry, officer) to Tesco to buy my morning newspaper.
“Doing anything exciting?” I asked him.
“Taking my lad fishing at Bitterwell Lake,” he replied.
And off they drove the six or so miles to Coalpit Heath in order to spend a fun-packed day catching fish with a fishing road, putting them in a keep net and, later on, setting them free in the lake.
I have to say that I could not possibly imagine of anything more boring and pointless than fishing and the actual act of it was not the point of my envy: more the ability to legally do something you love to do. And so long as you fish locally, the government has deemed it safe to do so. Unlike the things I like to do, one of which is golf.
My local course, Woodlands, has an awful lot of water in it and it’s fair to say I have visited many of the lakes and brooks over the years. At the end of the Signature course, there are two holes where you literally cross a fishing lake and as I am slicing and hooking my balls into it as I pass the fishermen.
Many of them bringing their own tents and have several rods, sometimes as many as four. I cannot swear to this but the rods appear to have flashing lights on them for reasons I don’t really understand. The fishermen sit there for hours on their little stools, drinking coffee from flasks and eating sandwiches from plastic cartons and whilst they are not exactly full of smiles, they seem to be content enough.
As my acquaintance drove off for the day, I wished I was going somewhere, like a golf course. But that’s too dangerous, apparently.
In fact, Deputy Chief Medical Officer Jonathan Van Tam implored the Great British Public to stick to the rules, just for a few more years. “Don’t fuck it all up now!” At least that’s how it sounded to me. Despite my huge admiration for Professor JVT, I had the same reaction to this as I did when his boss Chris Whitty praised the public for getting the new infection numbers down by not doing things we’re not allowed to do. I’m afraid, the lockdown is getting to me more than ever.
When I say lockdown, it didn’t feel much like a lockdown when I had to make a return trip to Southmead Hospital yesterday (not for me, so don’t worry) and the traffic was far, far busier than on a ‘normal’ Friday. People were, I’d imagine, coming home from work, much of which is going to be indoors. Apparently, sitting in a ram-packed office is COVID-safe – it must be since no one has been prosecuted for having COVID-unsafe work premises – as is fishing, but having a chat across the garden fence, or God forbid, playing outdoor sport turns you into a super-spreader. Hmm. I’d say that playing golf with my friends represents a super-spreader of just one thing: shit golf.
I’m still interpreting the government rules to best protect my family, my friends and third-parties, but I recognise the unmissable symptoms which suggest I am slowly going mad. Even hearing about someone going fishing when I can’t play golf finds me taking it all personally. Totally irrational, I know, but nearly a year on and I won’t be able to stand this for much longer.
Even though in Bristol today we have the most beautiful late winter’s day, with barely a cloud in the sky, it isn’t lifting my mood, as isn’t Jonathan Van Tam’s instruction of “Don’t fuck it all up now”.
I appreciate why we are still in this bizarre half-arsed lockdown and I’m going to put up with it. But inside, a small part of me dies with each breaking sunrise.
If only I could have a Bobby Ewing moment and walk out of the shower and find the last year had just been a very bad dream. Instead, the nightmare goes on.
