Five more days?

At 07.30 hrs, this morning, I started  my final week of the three which are part of my furlough rota. Thus far, customer demand has been so low that eight of us have been able to keep up with order levels in a department which, pre Covid-19, had a minimum manning requirement of thirty-four! What happens after I walk out of the factory, next Friday afternoon, who's to know? Will I ever return to full time work at the site or is it the signal for impending early retirement? The stark reality is that nothing I did created this situation and nothing I can do will change it. Whatever will be; will be.

My immediate reaction to finishing that final shift will be roll on June 16th! Very selfish and one dimensional, but I am really looking forward to getting back out on the marshes in my continuing quest for wild carp. The syndicate fishery is always there as a fall back, should I require it. So a "win - win" situation with three free weeks to make the most of this next furlough period. Plans are very fluid. The only overnight session will be that ritual mid-night start on 16th June, Absolutely no doubt that I'll blank; it's just the being out there that matters? After getting that "Opening Night" silliness out of my system, it will be a return to the short (four to six hours) sessions which are now my preferred option, whatever species I'm targeting. 

My original 1959 Mk IV had no problems with this superb fish from The RMC

Only another six and a half pounds to go!

The bait freezer is absolutely crammed full of party mix, chickpeas and mashed bread. The bait cupboard has stacked cans of flaked tuna, in brine, and cheap sweetcorn, all awaiting the liquidiser treatment before getting thrown into the munga. Catapults, bait droppers and spods (I don't own a "Spomb") are all ready to be pressed into action dependant upon the situation I am faced with. I've got plenty of time, in the interim, to play around with rig mechanics and associated bait presentations. I've got a small tank in which I'm able to fine tune those tiny details which might just be the edge that I desire. 

The split cane thirty quest won't ever cease, as a project, until I realise my promise or age/ill-health intervenes. What I have now realised is that there is no time limit on this challenge, nor is there pressure to succeed, beyond that of my own making. One thing's for sure, however, I certainly have more influence over the chances of a thirty pound carp ending up in my landing net than I do over my future employment prospects. These are strange times and very strange things, just, might happen?