Fishing With Wotsits
“I…” he began, with a flourish, as he pranced along the riverside, the vodka having gone to his head a little, “do not understand fishing.”
“Really,” she laughed, “and why is that?”
He looked her in the eye, trying to seem suave and sophisticated, hoping that the glint in his eye seemed attractive and not cheesy. “Because,” he replied, “I can sit at home and not catch fish.”
“I think the point is that you actually catch fish,” she smiled back at him, the glint in her eye was undoubtedly attractive, and he wondered if it had been placed there deliberately or if she just looked at everyone that way.
“No, no, noooo,” he continued, acting just a little more drunk than he was in the hopes that it would be endearing, “the point is to sit and get cold. I have been fishing exactly two times in my life, and there was no catching of fish involved on either occasion.”
“None at all?” she smiled, and he momentarily lost his train of thought.
“Um…” he stammered for a moment, “no! Admittedly the first time I was using a toy fishing rod and a packet of cheesy wotsits for bait…and there may not have actually been any fish in that stream…but that’s besides the point. The second time there was an actual proper fishing pole and actual proper bait, and an actual proper river…”
“An actual proper one?” she laughed.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “And yet there was still no catching of fish!”
“Actual proper fish?” she asked, giggling lightly.
“Actual…proper…fish…” he nodded in reply.
“So…” she looked thoughtful.
“So,” he replied, “that’s why I don’t like fishing.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, enigmatically, and skipped slightly ahead of him.
“What?” he asked, a little confused, and quickened his pace slightly to catch up with her.
“You love fishing,” she smiled. “You’re doing it right now.”
He stopped and smiled at her, and simply said, “Oh…”
“And so am I.”