HONEY FISHING.

The morning at the riverside was of an enchanting sweetness. Not because I raised a multitude of fish worthy of gracing the covers fishing magazine, but because I was doing what I love most, feeleeling the water flow between my legs, breathing in perfumes unknown in my studio (where there is an unrelenting odor of turpentine) and having a little snack, sitting with my head in the shade and my toes fanned out before me.

At the river I prepared a sandwich of real competition. It’s not that I spit on sausage and butter, or ham with pickles or camembert of Normandy (don’t put words in my mouth) but if there is one thing that really turns my head, it’s lavender honey.

Especially the lavender honey of Noe, our friend who sells at the saturday market in les Vans. Ah! Noe’s honey! This holy spread is pure opium. Not too runny as to run down your arms, but not too solid either. Simply… perfect. The moment you open one of these jars, it’s assured transcendence and the idea would never visit you to kill a bee. No way!

I took the honey and spread it on slices of bread, and my god if it wasn’t heaven, it was close.

Of course I had my hands covered with honey and at that moment I had an irrepressible desire to piss, a desire that I had earlier buried in my bladder, now resurfaced with a diabolical urgency.

I left my sandwich and made for the nearest tree trunk where I rapturously relieved myself of my impatient urine.

That night, before going to bed I made a singular discovery. Certainly attracted by the traces of honey that I unknowingly left on my organ, a tiny insect, a kind of miniature fly, (no doubt wanting his part, so good is Noe’s honey), found his sublime death stuck to my member.

Might one, in this precise case, call this fly-fishing?

Some of you will affirm that it is. As for me, allow me, momentarily, to suspend my judgement.