No, I don’t want to look at your beer mat collection!



Today Big H has been examining, and looking after, all of his fishing rods, waders, flies and whatever.

It is a good time to avoid him, as I have no desire to be told yet again about the construction of rods and of his new preference for cane rods, as opposed to his many previously purchased carbon ones.  Or about how amazingly light his new wading stick is, or how amazingly quickly it can be shaken open.

All necessary items , but not my idea of scintillating conversation.

Even when we go fishing together, we each have a totally different approach to it.

He takes into account the prevailing weather conditions, the kind of flies presently hatching  out, as well as how many layers of thermal underwear should be put on.

This is slowly followed by a long examination of his fly box, before the all important comparison (spoken) of the various types of fly.

I, however, just pick up my only rod ( more than one is just an example of conspicuous consumption in my book) and put on my cool black thigh waders, before looking in his fly collection for the shiniest, prettiest fly, which I then get him to fix onto my line.

Then I am ready to rock, at least an hour before he is.

He always argues that you cannot choose a fly so arbitrarily but I tell him that if I was a fish, then I would  only notice the shiniest one.

Anyway, I catch a lot more fish than he does, and much bigger ones to boot, so I think his whole argument is entirely spurious.


It is good for people to have their special areas of interest.

Hobbies are good. They give a continuous and reliable form of enjoyment, and can even be a passable reason to keep going, when life is not too easy.


Some things are of great interest to large segments of the population in general, such as films, clubbing,  dancing,  music, soaps or football.

This kind of intense involvement forms a basis for socialising and conversation in general , in fact, are a part of what is accepted as normal life.


It must be a lot different when a person’s interest becomes  more unusual and rarefied.

It must be hard being with a partner who has moved into having an obsession, rather than a hobby.


Imagine life with a devoted Trekkie, especially one who lives in full costume, and offers you conversations littered with authentic Hollywood Klingon phrases, while seeming to confuse you with someone called Scottie, and keeps begging you to to beam him up, at regular intervals of the day.

As for being refused sex by someone wearing pink prosthetic ears,and who apparently does understand emotions, especially when you have had a hard week and a gentle Friday night cuddle would not go amiss.

Or how about a chess maniac.  Now that’s a compelling spectator sport if ever I saw one!


Petrol heads are not too bad.  At least you should be certain of a speedy trip to the shops whenever you are in the mood.  Unless, of course, they continually have the whole thing dismantled upon the living room floor, in order to keep the bloody machine in good running order in case anyone should happen to want to be driven speedily to the local shops.


What about obsessions for owning large reptiles or various smaller creepy crawly type thingies?  That must be fun at the weekends, getting it on in a bedroom in full view of a wall of cages, each containing small red- jewelled eyes, all watching the dismal, drink fuelled fumblings.  All thinking of the pleasures they would enjoy while striking their scorpion tails into bobbing pink bottoms, or rushing across on hairy spider legs to inflict big succulent spider-sized bites.

Or Boa Constrictors slithering across the floor to form a terminally painful menage a trois, where two of the participants unwillingly join in a little S&M, which will end in their eventually being thoroughly crushed and swallowed whole.


Slightly less energetic to watch, and listen to, are the stamp collectors, railway timetable memorizers, television addicts, nose pickers and examiners, long term dieters, and last but not least, the hypochondriacs.

But hey, lets look on the bright side.

At least masochists can be ordered to clean the house within an inch of it’s life.

The compulsives will keep everything tidy and in it’s place, and sex addicts will keep you busy.

Perhaps these people with obsessions have a love of danger that no one gives them credit for, given the possible long term effects on those partners dealing with the situation.

After all, there is bound to be a headline one day, telling of a Scrabble addict found dead having been impaled upon a sharpened letter holder by his long suffering, but eventually demented, partner.

I don’t even want to think what a golf widow might be driven to do with all those balls!


Obsession is something better worn than developed.


Have a good one.





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