Wake me up when it's sold

Oh dear - he we go again. I couldn't resist this antique English fishing box which I had been looking at in a friend's shop over the last few weeks and finally took home yesterday. Don't tell H.I. - she doesn't even know it's in the house, and I'm hoping to sell it on before she does.

It's not as if I haven't got a load more junk waiting to be sold on, but this box sort of sums up a golden age of pre First World War solitary recreation to me - sitting peacefully on a riverbank, not caring about the fish and blissfully unaware of the impending carnage to follow. Rather like Izzac Walton at the outbreak of the English Civil War.

It's the patina and shape that I like - covered in many layers of old, water-proofing paint and formed like a hip-flask for comfort when being carried. You just take all the tackle you need out of it, close the lid and sit on it for the entire afternoon, nodding quietly off whilst being hypnotised by the gently bobbing float in front of you. Then - in the unlikely event of your catching something - you put it in the box with the rest of the stuff and carry it proudly home - not sheepishly home like I did with this box yesterday...