The boats mainly come past in the summer months, but the fisherman is there all year round. This is his house now, and there’s nothing to stop him pissing on his own ground when he wakes up each day. But if he could he wouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s too far to see his face, so it’s hard to tell whether the man can see what he’s doing. Sometimes there’s a man fishing on the other side of the river. They can come past if they like but they shouldn’t expect him to wave. In their shining white boats with the chrome guard-rails and the tinted windows and the little swim-decks on the stern. He didn’t ask them to come sweeping past like that while he’s having his morning piss. Sometimes the people in the boats wave, but he doesn’t wave back. A drowned animal turning slowly in the current. He looks at the swirl and churn of the river. He has to hold on to the doorframe to keep his balance. Opening the door and pulling down the front of his pyjamas and the weight of a whole night’s piss pouring out on to the stony ground and winding down to the river which flows out to the sea. ![]() Waking up and getting out of bed and walking across the rough wooden floor. ![]() Standing in his doorway in the cold, wet morning light and pissing on the stony ground.
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