Standing under the Point des Artes, my fishing rod in hand and the line cast way out; it had begun to tug: that great sensation of resistance, knowing that you have a struggle ahead, oh, not too much of a struggle, but enough to make it worthwhile. I guess that's what makes the difference; it’s not about saving money and not really about self-sufficiency but more about the satisfaction of making an effort. I suppose there is something competitive about that but competitive is not quite the right word. Well, I know it doesn’t taste better, the fish we get in these waters, skinny city fish, pouty lipped and always looking like they're in a bad mood. True, I would no doubt pout too if I had been caught on a hook. So, anyway, once I had felt that initial tug I started reeling in, that mechanical roll, smooth running from years of fine tuning, counterbalancing the effort that I was just valorising because this bit is so damn easy; there is satisfaction in that too, though a different kind, although only easy because you have put in the effort, the little effort then and there and the previous effort of practicing and honing the craft over many years. Although saying that, the struggle and the ease do flip sides in those brief moments of reeling in, and there is, apart from the physical action, also a mental vacillation: is it a fish? an old boot? is it a big one? or a little one? am I going to make it or is it going to get away? They are not really questions – more bullets of thought that shoot out with each turn of the reel. But then it came to the surface, a real beauty, a local, a fine specimen, I mean, you see thousands like it but each time you catch one it’s like they are the first you have ever caught, or ever set eyes on; they become particular, inimitable, and that’s a real thrill. Then once you've removed that hook with tenderness, holding the fish steady in your hands and facing it towards you, its mouth seeming to open with a grand announcement on the tip of its tongue and then close again in embarrassment, or indecision, or irresolution, or something, and all you can do is stroke its back and say: there there, I know, no need to say it, I understand. But then they will soon start to struggle and there is nothing finer than a struggling fish, their lithe bodies wriggling, all ripped and pert. I tell you what; I've never seen a fat fish. Sure you get some real bruisers, but fat? flabby? podgy? chubby? chunky? Whales! If they were fish then they could be called fat, but only on land, because in their habitat they are as finely tuned and elegantly slender as a panther. You see, what I am saying is that excess is an imitation of life, you know like on the bridge with all of the locks, all unique and yet all the same, rippling along the railing like fish scales, busy and alive with life and meaning and hope, well that’s the thing, it is just an imitation because it has gone too far into excess, because it can no longer support its own weight. Well, so I will get to that, but there I was under the bridge with my fish singing in my hands, and this part really does break my heart because when you put your finger in their mouth and they take your finger like a baby its bottle and then you pull its head backwards a little to test how much force it is going to take to break it's neck, well, at just this moment you see the beautiful pout of the fish turn real ugly, so ugly that you don't know how you ever found it attractive, until you let the pressure drop a little and then you see again the little fish sucking on your finger, dependent on you for its life, so innocent, but you know you have to end it because there is no going back from that, so in one swift move you snap its neck. There is a thrill in this too, and a thrill that the fish seems to feel because it shudders in a kind of, you know, post orgasmic way, spasms rippling through its body that sometimes last for hours; and that look of peace, of release on its face; calm, contented repose. They do say that a hanged man, at the moment of death, that he ejaculates; maybe it is the same for fish. The next thing you do is slit open its belly, clean out all the entrails, get all of that shit out and then you're left with the real meat of life. But you see, when I was doing this, my knife sliced across something hard. I thought it must be a bone, but there is usually some give in bone, so then when I washed it out I saw that it was a key. I smiled at this, you know, although it was probably quite common to find bits of junk in the entrails of fish, god, I mean, look at the river, its probably 50% junk, but this was my first time and it wasn't just any junk, a scrap of metal or a ring pull or a bottle top; it was a key, and there is something kind of symbolic in that. I had just opened up the fish and inside was a key: what was this going to open up? I thought. I mean, it’s a little silly I admit. You find keys on the floor all of the time and it never occurs to you to pick them up or even ponder their significance; but a key that a fish has swallowed is food for thought. And then I looked at it more closely: scratched into the key were the initials B+H swimming in an asymmetrical heart; at least in that regard it was accurate. I looked up to the bridge and this sure sense came over me that the key had come from up there and that I would be able to find the lock that it belonged to with ease. This much was true. I walked up to the bridge, with fish in tow, casting an eye over the locks that seemed to infest the bridge like maggots wriggling out of the hide of a dead donkey. There was something chilling about it, unsanitary in a way. I didn't know where to start my search; so many coupled initials, so many crass hearts, so I started at the end, or what appeared to be the end, and what do you think I found? The very same ineloquently scribbled initials on a tiny padlock, surprisingly small in comparison to its neighbors who all appeared bold and brash and overconfident. There was something sweet, almost innocent about this one and I felt like I was saving a scrawny chick that had fallen from its nest as I inserted the key and untangled its body from the grating of the bridge. Although I did have a feeling of committing an impropriety and as I looked around, feeling that people were looking at me, which they were, the look of amusement, though in fact it was mild amazement, dropped from my face and I quickly pocketed the padlock and key still attached and walked away. What had I felt so nervous about? I don't know, but when the image flashed on the screen as I took my first mouthful of fish, a startling sense of deja vu froze my jaw: Lovelocks cause Point des Artes to collapse: Witnesses called for.