I stand by the water's edge, focusing on nothing and everything. I don't quite know what that means, but it is during fishing trips that I try out my metaphysical skills for size. A promised trip to see an ex-girlfriend has loomed until it is over me and has become one of those promises which either turns into one of my lies or something I actually manage to fulfil, and so I combine the grown-up apparent necessity of cordiality with a day's fishing enroute.
Above me, F-15s from the vast nearby USAF base crackle and snarl at one another, and I watch them roll and twist with each other, like dolphins on the blue ocean of the sky. The juxtaposition of the isolation of the fens with their roars is striking, and the water seems to occasionally ripple.
After a time though, they appear to be passing directly overhead with unusual frequency, and I begin suspect I am being buzzed. The lone man stood in the middle of nowhere would, I suppose, be quite a good marker to measure the accuracy of your manoeuvres by. However, the sensation of being that man is not dissimilar to the paranoia that people are sniggering at you. I try not to duck in case they see.
Worst of all though is, combined with my lack faith in both people and machines, the idea that maybe, for practise purposes, some sort of missile lock is on me. Would it be completely impossible for someone up there to make a terrible mistake? Those chaps are awfully good at blue on blues after all.
I ponder for a while though if "Man Killed Fishing On Suffolk Fen By US Fighter Jet Attack" would be a more satisfactory way to go than the usual same old same old. It would certainly be an interesting story.
I catch a slimy bream, and decide maybe it is time to be on my way.
5 weeks ago