For this week’s #writephoto prompt here
I’ve come up with something sub-Woosterish
‘I’ve been here for ages, Blopher and not so much as a gnat’s gnibble.’ The Rt. Hon. Trenchant ‘Dangle’ Plumbline shifted his stance, trying to move the cramp from one buttock to the other. ‘What is the fun in this?’
Martin ‘Blopher’ Farquarson, esq. picked a thread of ready rubbed from between his incisors and settled further back into his portable Chesterfield. ‘If I had my way, my old pippin, we’d been casting our eyes on the Misses Tickle, not our flies on this rancid little trickle, but if I haven’t taught you the difference between a tuck and a roll cast by tomorrow, it’s not just my gonads that will be baiting the deuced hook. Come on Dangle, just one more try and you can have a snifter.’ Blopher waved his silver flask encouragingly.
Trenchant sighed and flexed his shoulders, trying to remember the mantra Blopher had instilled in him over devilled kidneys and mulled gubbins at Mrs Bespoke’s Olde Worlde Inne. He’s heart wasn’t in it. Even though his Aunt Gabardine had made it clear that his allowance would suffer untold torments if he failed to make himself presentable for Lord Pontefract’s huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ weekend, he had begun to consider relative penury better than any other sort of relative, especially aunts. ‘You know, Bloph,’ he mused, as he began the laborious task of untangling the barbed fly from his breeches, ‘maybe I should join the Foreign Legion or the circus. Sticking my head in a lion’s mouchoire has to be less painful than this. I… good god!’
Blopher, who’d begun to nod off, jolted awake. ‘You’ve got a bite! Now remember what I said…’
‘Was that before or after you covered your face and said “Don’t worry old man, you’ll less likely to catch a compliment from the Aunt’s collective than a fish…” Good grief, what is this thing…’
As Trenchant worked the line, Blopher waded out to stand next to him. He eased the rod from Trenchant’s fumbling fingers and began to draw the catch in their direction.
‘Deuced big for a salmon.’ Trenchant tried to remember other types of fish but if they weren’t grilled, buttered or breaded he had difficulty placing them. ‘Is that a face?’
‘Only,’ wheezed the overworked fisherman, ‘in the sense that one might,’ another gasp of breath and whatever it was slithered onto some stones, ‘ask if your aunt is a carnivore. One is pretty sure of ones guess but isn’t about to get any closer to find out for sure.’
Trenchant huffed. ‘You’re such a diff, you know?’ He began to move towards the wriggling form. ‘I think it’s covered in cord. Good heavens!’
Before he said any more he fumbled in his pockets for his handy Swiss Army knife, spent what seemed an age choosing the correct attachment and then began slashing at the catch.
Blopher made a squeaky noise that triggered an auto response in Trenchant – he held his breath. ‘Sorry, old man, but they always say adrenaline is a gassy shade of brown. Should you be doing that?’
Trenchant continued with his frantic thating, and after half a dozen more swipes and a couple of squeals, the outer netting fell away and some sort of amphibious bean poll rolled away. The sort of face had begun to change from its original blue to a deep cerise.
‘Banty Trubshaw, if I live and breathe,’ exclaimed Blopher. ‘Though you need to do some breathing if your own, old man.’
The freed diver looked anxiously at Trenchant who nodded. ‘It’s okay Banty, Bloph just let go a light zephyr. You may feel a tad zesty and make sure you avoid broccoli for a couple of days. You can breathe.’
Banty nodded his thanks, bent to put his hands on his knees and gulped in air.
While he recovered, Blopher dug out his flask and Trenchant went to find a restorative cigarillo. When Banty looked less like a raspberry Trenchant asked, ‘So how does my weedy little cousin end up spawning in the River Nibble?’
‘The usual, Dangle. Mother.’
Ignoring the muttered, ‘Aunts’ from Blopher, Trenchant leant forward to lift his cousin’s jelloid chin. ‘What, pray, did my darling Aunt have you do? Were you spying?’
‘Sabotage. I was to ensure you lost any confidence by scaring away all the fish, but the little blighters wouldn’t listen. I was offering bribes when you managed to snag my wet suit and trussed me up like some mummy.’
‘I think more like an aunt, Banty. What are you going to do? Admit defeat?’
‘Goodness, no! When you have a mother like mine, there’s one lesson you learn early on. How to lie convincingly.’
Trenchant lit his cigar. ‘Same goes for Aunts. Though in my experience they’ll eventually twig.’
‘What do we do?’ asked Blopher morosely.
‘Only one thing for it. Find a very tall tree, climb as far as we can and then pull it up after us.’