I'm sat, soggy bummed in two opposing streams. The first is wide, and slow, and called Halifax, West Yorkshire. It's a gorgeous stream with rolling eddies, known to generations and populated by fish called Maureen and Stuart who work in the post office and chat to every customer even though it's a Monday morning and fifteen older ladies you certainly wouldn't mess with are queuing to draw their pensions or put a fiver on the gas. And I'm waiting to post compacts.
"Christmas stamps. I certainly don't want Christmas stamps. What do I want Christmas stamps for. I've never done Christmas, Maureen. Just the church. Minus 17 on the moor this morning."
"Yes love, what about this walking eh? Treacherous. Minus 9 when we opened up."
The other stream is fast and cutting, murky red with iron oxide and industrial effluent, and pushes hard with promises of fame, fortune and a table at Gordon Ramsays. This stream wants dedication, midnights at the laptop, and to sell, sell, sell. The other'd be happy with countryside walks and a nice border terrier. The two are fighting it out, whirling around that sodden bum and making me bloody dizzy. In a quiet sort of way in the post office queue.