A Battered Bonce, Grade 3 Zither and 52

Bang bang Maxwell’s silver hammer came down upon his head.

Well maybe not Maxwell’s sterling persuader but my 25kg fence bumper.

I am not quite sure how it happened. I was working alone bumping a couple of posts into the river bank for a seat on the short stretch we have opened up below the bottom bends. I raised the bumper up above my head in order to deliver the opening blow, I lost my balance and the thing came down on my head sending me flat on my back into six inches of mud and water.

There’s no old man of Arron going round and a round but near a tree by a river there’s a hole in the ground with my hearing aid in it. As I hit the deck one of my hearing aids popped out. Scrabbling around in the mud for the expensive aural piece I was forced to abandon my search as I couldn’t see through my glasses for blood.

I hobbled home and dialled 111 who told me to dial 999. While waiting for the ambulance I climbed the stairs to take off my wet clothes where I went a bit wobbly in the bedroom and had to sit down on the bed. Covered in blood and mud the bedroom soon assumed a “Holby City” air.

The ambulance arrived in ten minutes and I then went into shock. I acquired a stutter, my blood pressure and heart rate shot up and I couldn’t stop shivering. The medicos were brilliant and deliberated between Basingstoke and Winchester as to which was the best place to take the patient.

Winchester it was, and after four hours I was on my way home with a head full of glue and a special dressing. A funny forty eight hours followed, with headaches, fogginess and an inability to sleep after my intense adrenaline high.

It’s all ok now and while some people following a bump on the bonce find they can suddenly speak Spanish or play the Zither to grade 3 level. I have not suddenly acquired any new talents other than a propensity to quote song lyrics in any guff I now chuck up.

Anyway the river.

It just about remains within it’s banks. The opening day of the trout season on this stretch is just under four weeks away and some bits of bank will be out of bounds for a few weeks.

Ranunculus is in fine form and will be cut in April. The river is losing colour and the gravel is sparkling with hardly a grain of silt to be seen, it is plain to even the most addled of eyes what a restorative effect high winter flow has on a chalk river. Ducks are getting fruity, which is always a sign that winter is nearly over. Mallard drakes are a horny beast in March and April and this morning Lord Ludg and myself caught four of the things in pursuit of a duck across a field a long way from the river.

Not seen any Lupine shenanigans in the field behind our house yet this year. It used to be a magnet at this time of year for hares driven mad by lust. There are more hares about here than there have been for a few years so I’ll keep looking. It’s the only place I’ve seen a parliament of the things with nine or ten of them formed up in a circle fifteen feet across. At one time it was common place to draw our bedroom curtains of a morning and see three or four Hartleys bumbling about the bottom corner of the field.

And then there’s the virus.

It is a thing, and the tone in some corners of the media has changed significantly in the last ten days. Less of the fact free, say what ever you like, reporting of the past three or four years, but a tacit acknowledgment that they have a responsibility to provide clear and accurate information to Joe public as opposed to pushing agendas various.
On "Our Great Leader's" advice we have cancelled our plans to visit Porto at Easter and are washing our hands furiously at every opportunity.

In my line of work, the majority of people I mix with are in the “vulnerable” group. We plan to open for fishing as normal. I will be even more socially distant than previous summers and will wash my hands regularly and check my temperature twice a day. I also promise to lock myself in the cupboard under the stairs for many days at the slightest hint of any lurgy.

It’s the sensible thing to do, and I hope will provide reassurance to many of our regulars who may consider themselves at risk. In conversation in the back of the ambulance last week, I raised the issue of self isolation. The Medico came back with “From what I’ve learnt about you in the past hour” (and there were many questions)“ You’ve pretty much been in self isolation for most of your working life”

I don’t know how this has happened (particularly considering recent events) but this week Madam and myself turned 52 years old.

The following has become a bit of a perennial standard for this house,

A google reveals that the number 52 is the natural number following 51 and preceding 53

The wraith of Paul Daniels or possibly Bruce Forsyth insists that a full pack of cards bar jokers numbers 52,

With a nod to the natural world, 52 is the number of Hertz that one particular whale emits when in song. An unusual range, he has been dubbed the Barry White of the whale world.

Numerologists have it that 52 carries a similar level of energy to the number 7, while Angel numbers teach us that the number 52 is a message that you have made the right choices and are on the perfect path for the realisation of your life’s higher purpose.

Whatever, we've both just turned 52.