And if that sounds like an undiscovered Ian Dury track, let me just say you find me with reason not to be “cheerful”.

Let me just clear one thing up? I am not old, OK? Old’ish, I grant you. Decrepit? No. So let’s start with New Year's Day. Alex and I always go fishing on New Year's Day: tradition is part of the festive period: this is our 'tradition'. If we catch something, brilliant. If we don’t, who cares? We were in the West Country with our dear friends the Hendries’ at their spectacularly beautiful hotel in Exford on Exmoor. We – Alex, Lewis and I – decided to go fishing. Problem: the only prospect was the tiny stream (that held grayling, apparently) that flows through Bampton. Good’ish.

The only access point into the stream, was via a high stonewall in the adjacent car park. Now, I am reasonably agile, but I'm not as nimble as I used to be. I descended the wall, sublimely. We fished. Lewis had some lovely little herring-sized grayling (bit of an oxymoron), and I had one or two. Then Alex and Lewis departed for pastures new, leaving the old chap to pick and ferret about the runs, riffles and pools a little bit up stream. It dawned on me that I simply had the wrong 'stuff', that nagging notion that I was fishing the water all wrong.

A change of equipment was needed. So I scrabbled out of the river, up the bank, re-rigged from stuff in the car, felt happier and then realised that if I got back in the river where I had just got out, I would ruin a perfectly good run with fish still in it – who wants to do that? Back to the wall and another sublime leap. Not! Ankle went over, and an “Ouch!” shot up the wader boot, through the waders and into the winter cold-numbed brain. It was a leap too far.

A sprain, I thought , and carried on fishing. As I tried to just walk it off I caught some more fish (just for the record Alex didn’t!).
 
Well, the next day (New Year bank holiday Monday), with what appeared to be a smallish zeppelin attached to where my ankle should be, I was chaperoned to Dorchester A&E. The staff there were lovely, and very efficient and professional. But they did tell me that I had in fact, fractured bits of ankle and sustained ligament damage. Gah!

Sooooo, the upshot? A 'Beckham boot', no fishing (a bit of casting, though, as the photo suggests), and well, a rearranged life. And time to tie flies.

However, Mouse revenge is brutal. Some might remember my extolling the virtues of a certain rodent dubbing (in my January column, Of mice and grayling)? Well, guess what made a nest in some of my favourite bits of dubbing and bits …

I am still looking for places to fish that do not involve getting feet wet. It’s not as easy as you think! And I'm contemplating a serious mouse hunt. If I am fast enough. Happy new season.