This is an original short story written by a friend. I use my voice in this piece to draw the listener in to the poignancy of the tale, to leave them touched by the sad despair of the central figure.
Middle Aged (35-54)
British (Received Pronunciation - RP, BBC)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the water is always greener in large pond. When the sun shines, it resembles a week pea soup. If you look further out past the muddy edges that are worn down by the fishermen with their myriad of equipment, the trees are cut back to allow unhindered cast of the road. They neatly framed the so called swims where they sit to fish. Today there are three of them, two on the Far Bank, one on the near. Occasionally they stand to study the water. Some distance back from the edge, of course, so the small fish that patrol the shallows aren't startled. No one bothers them. They are alone with their sport, happy in their isolation. Andrew sits on the small, collapsible chair he carried in his rucksack, along with the usual ham and mustard sandwich on white bread on a small amount of milk in a plastic bottle he imagines reeling in a beauty bigger than last week's A mirror carp. Perhaps he's imagined many over the years on a Wednesday, when the daycare comes just for a little while alone, he parks his bicycle in the fisherman's carpark, having used his Farnum angling Society key to unlock the gate that he could just ride around. In truth, this will be his 11th year of membership. He hasn't properly fished yet, but he's well known in the angling shop in Aldershot, and his regular visits have accrued quite a kit. Balts reels, bait boxes, all ready for the day. When he does have more time, the day when he can afford to think just of himself, the phone in the side pocket of his fisherman's jacket buzzes again. 11 take care will be arrived.