Surf's up?

Today, I went for a surf. I have not been for a surf for aggggges. I decided to take in the fish as it looked teeny and windy, this turned out to be a very good idea. Got a few ok waves but I really wish I had worn my hood in as it was bloody freezing!

This is me with the fish hybrid board when I first bought it in Mount Manganui, NZ in.....2008? Wow, that seems like ages ago now!

Now it is completely mangled, yellow and dinged. There's a huge dent in the bottom where I broke my collarbone on it! It still rides pretty well though considering...

Is anyone actually interested in surfing? Shall I put some pictures up of my newer boards? Needless to say, I got better and went smaller and shorter.

I keep this one as my fail-safe, wave guarantee-er. It rides almost like a shortboard but it fat and buoyant enough to catch waves easily. Booooooooring.

Here's some creative writing to take your mind off it...


So this piece was intended as an extended metaphor. It's meant to have birdlike references throughout and the interaction between the two characters was supposed to represent two sparring birds of paradise...

Pecking Order

This is Jim’s favourite table. He always sits here because it provides him with a good view of her. However, he always dines alone, hunched over the plate, skinny neck bulging as he swallows, head snapped back to open the gullet. His avian eyes flick anxiously from side to side, as if to scan for predators on the peripheral.

A man approaches. Jim looks up, regarding him warily.

‘Can I?’ says the man, gesturing to the packed canteen and then to the empty seat.

Without waiting for a response, the man starts lowering himself into the chair.

‘Well, well yes. I suppose so.’ Jim says, choking on his latest mouthful. He doesn’t appreciate the invasion. He pulls his plate in closer and continues pecking.

 ‘Great, cheers.’ The man says.

He lets himself fall into the seat, exhales and loosens his flashy, red tie. He pushes the chair back at an oblique angle, he likes to face his audience.

He opens his sandwiches and tears off a bite.

‘Nice phone.’ The man says in between mouthfuls. ‘Is that the 480?’

‘Yeh’ Jim says.

‘I used to have one of those. I’ve got the 600 now. These haven’t even been released in the UK yet, a mate hooked me up.’

The man slides his gloriously pretentious phone in between them. He leans back, puffs out his chest, stretches his elongated legs underneath the table.

‘Oh sorry, did I kick you then?’ he says. But he doesn’t retract the legs.

Jim looks down from his plate to the premium leather loafers, which are quite obviously and categorically encroaching on his personal space, and then back up to the man. The man is otherwise engaged ogling the room, the women specifically, his wandering eyes rolling around in his big, fat head. The women glance back, giggling coquettishly and primping their feathers. With a withering crush, he notices that even she is looking back.

Jim glares at him. This intruder, who chews with his mouth open and wears too much aftershave. With every speck of his whole he is willing this gate crasher out of his territory.

The man throws back the last of his sandwich and flings the empty box onto the table. It slides across and hits Jim’s plate. Jim balks, seething in silence. The man doesn’t notice, he’s too busy checking his hair in the shiny surface of his stupid phone.

‘Anyway, cheers for that.’  The man says insincerely, standing up and brushing off the crumbs. He doesn’t push his chair back in, leaving it standing ludicrously far away from the table. He struts off, whistling loudly.

Jim surveys his previously pristine habitat - the crumbled sandwich pack, the half chewed crusts, the unmoored chair, the lingering stench of cologne.

 ‘What a cock.’ Jim thinks.