There are moments in life when everything feels finely balanced, delicately poised like a well-shotted waggler on a calm canal… and then, without warning, someone boots the rod rest, knocks your tea over, and sets fire to the landing net. Last Thursday, somewhere between a mid-morning brew and a half-hearted attempt at productivity in the automotive design studio, that exact feeling descended upon us except instead of fire, it was IT. Which, in many ways, is worse.
It began innocently enough. A little pop-up. Bottom right corner. The digital equivalent of a polite cough before chaos. “Attempting to access IP address…” it said, or something equally sinister and vaguely unhelpful. Being seasoned professionals, we collectively shrugged and carried on, because if you reacted to every strange IT message, you'd never get anything done. Besides, the organisation was “blocking it,” which sounded reassuring in the same way a garden fence reassures you about an approaching rhinoceros.
By late afternoon, however, the studio had begun to unravel like a cheap spool of line under pressure. Systems started dropping out one by one. Drives vanished. Applications wheezed their last. Wi-Fi went funny. The general mood shifted from mild curiosity to that quiet, creeping dread normally reserved for when you realise you've left the landing net in the garage.
Friday brought hope, or at least the illusion of it. There were “workarounds” that marvellous IT phrase which translates roughly to “this might function if you don’t breathe on it.” I clung onto my CATIA licence like a carp angler grips his last boilie during a blank session, managing to work locally and avoid the increasingly haunted Indian network. Forty-plus hours ticked off by lunchtime, I clocked out feeling smug and slightly heroic, convinced the tech wizards would wave their digital wands over the weekend and restore order, despite the main IT guy gone AWOL.
Blog readers they did not.
Monday arrived like a damp bivvy morning grey, disappointing, and smelling faintly of something gone wrong. The systems were not just broken; they were caput. Not resting. Not updating. Not “experiencing issues.” Properly, gloriously dead. The design studio had all the functionality of a chocolate teapot. By midday, I’d been reassigned to “A2MAC1 benchmarking duties,” which is a polite way of saying “find something to do that doesn’t involve working systems.”
And then came the bombshell. IT, those brave custodians of cables and confusion, admitted defeat. “Not anytime soon,” they said. “See you next Tuesday.” Next Tuesday. As if we were discussing a casual pint rather than my entire working week evaporating like mist off a canal at sunrise. As a jobber on an hourly rate, this wasn’t a quirky inconvenience it was financial vandalism. A forced holiday, unrequested and entirely unpaid. The sort of surprise nobody enjoys.
Naturally, I approached Tuesday with a sense of purpose. By which I mean I did absolutely nothing. A lie-in, a leisurely clean of the Jimny, a bit of rod sorting the kind of day that feels productive until you realise you’ve achieved nothing of actual consequence. Still, there are worse ways to spend time than tinkering with fishing gear and pretending you’re preparing for greatness.
Sam, meanwhile, had a rare day off school with a dodgy tummy and a level of honesty that cut through the morning like a sharp hooklink. “Don’t want to poo myself in school, Daddy,” he declared. “I’d be known as the kid who sh*t himself.” LANGUAGE !! A fair point, delivered with the clarity of someone who understands the brutal social economy of the playground. Some reputations, once earned, are impossible to shake.
Just as I began to contemplate a proper fishing session the next day to salvage the week, fate intervened once more. A message from 16 year old Ben’s special needs hub in Stratford-Upon-Avon arrived the night before: boiler issues. Closed. No warmth, no learning, no peace. Plans shifted again. Fishing window reduced to a couple of hours a frantic dash rather than a leisurely campaign.
Still, a couple of hours is better than none, and with a tip-off from Buffalo Si's mate Security Neil about a local perch spot, I was off. The venue was an inlet from a lock above, a place where the water moved just enough to make things interesting. The sort of swim that whispers promise while simultaneously reminding you that gongoozlers, and the ever-present dog poo bag waving brigade are never far away.
Thankfully, there’s always a way. A bit of manoeuvring over the rather high lock paddles and I found myself tucked away from the main towpath, in a spot that felt almost… peaceful. The flow was perfect either tight to the wall or a metre out where it behaved like a miniature river. A proper little gem.
Out went the perch bobber, maggots and worms from my own wormery doing their duty like loyal soldiers. Alongside it, a sleeper rod for zander, armed with a roach deadbait and quiet optimism. The kind of setup that says, “I’m here for anything that fancies a nibble.”
And nibble they did.
Perch came first six or seven of them. Not monsters, but spirited little fighters with that trademark aggression that makes them such a joy. Each one a reminder that fishing doesn’t need to be monumental to be meaningful. Sometimes, it’s just about the rhythm the cast, the drift, the strike.
Then, about an hour in, the sleeper rod came alive.
Now, a zander doesn’t do things politely at this time of year. There’s no gentle enquiry, no tentative nibble. It’s a proper take, followed by a scrap that feels far bigger than the fish itself. This one was no exception. All fins, fury, and indignation, it fought like it had somewhere important to be and I was very much in the way.
Eventually, though, persistence wins. Into the net it came a cracking fish. Five pounds on the nose, full of spawn, and absolutely brimming with attitude. The kind of capture that makes the whole chaotic week fade into the background. Even the obligatory selfie felt like a victory rather than a chore, despite the fish’s clear disapproval.
By nine, the sun crept out and, as it so often does, switched the feeding off like someone flicking a light. Bites dried up. The moment passed. Time to pack up.
Back home, it was straight into Dad mode taking Ben out for what can only be described as a “liquid lunch” in Spoons and a pizza for him while his mum handled dinner lady duties. Sitting there, pint in hand, reflecting on a week that had veered wildly from digital disaster to unexpected angling success, I couldn’t help but think… I could get used to this.
Not the IT collapse, mind you. But the fishing. Definitely the fishing.
Roll on retirement !!
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