Like so many fly-fisher's, I began my piscatorial escapades by 'course' fishing at the age of about four, not that long after two other great sporting events.

The previous year or so, Roger Bannister had run the first sub four minute mile and Edmund Hillary and his daft chums had, for reasons known only to themselves, climbed Mount Everest. Now it was my turn.

It came in the form of a 3" perch which must have towed my float around underwater for ages before I unceremoniously hoisted it skywards. I can still remember the whole scene vividly to this day, including my brother hurriedly using an old disgorger to remove the hook and partly digested maggot!

And that was it…an angler for life.

From that day on, I couldn't pass water (if you'll pardon the expression) without stopping and glaring into the depths of a lake or river, looking for fish – and in later years those long drives to Devon and Yorkshire took twice the time as we stopped at every river along the way, parked the car precariously on the edge of a busy road and strolled back to lean over a bridge…and just look.

After years of quite happily catching possibly thousands of roach, bream, tench, pike (and much larger perch), then legering for chunky chub and powerful barbel on pristine rivers such as The Kennet or The Swale (and occasionally catching the odd and extremely exotic wild trout) a Saatchi friend of mine, Ian Green, nagged me into a days fly-fishing at Church Hill Farm, a Stillwater trout fishery in Buckinghamshire. Fly-fishing? Trout? This all sounded a bit elitist…and difficult…and expensive.

Ian was also an enthusiastic course-fisherman who had recently been introduced to the fly rod and was so enamoured with it that he persuaded me to give up a Sunday on the River Thames and try this different and slightly intimidating new experience. We had a half hour casting lesson in his garden (he had a very large garden) and I successfully hooked and landed my first hydrangea.

We then had breakfast and drove a couple of miles to the fishery, arriving at about 10am. Now, this was completely new territory for me and my first insight into fly-fishing. We'd had breakfast (?) and had arrived at the fishery mid-morning (?) and carrying virtually nothing. This was all very different, very strange and rather civilised.

My usual outings involved getting up just before dawn, yomping about 3 miles carrying a ton of gear and being so hungry that by 10am I'd eaten all my packed lunch. This new experience seemed extremely agreeable.

Ian set up the two rods in the car park (a car park?) and we ambled down to the water. As I had no fly fishing equipment myself I offered to carry something and Ian gave me a rod – a very light rod weighing just a few ounces.

"I'll carry the net as well" I offered eagerly. "Don't worry, you won't be needing it" said Ian, a tad rudely I thought. However, he was absolutely right; I caught nothing other than a few trees and rather a lot of grass. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it immensely.

I enjoyed the getting-up at a sensible hour. I enjoyed the breakfast. I enjoyed arriving mid-morning and having nothing to carry and I very much enjoyed having no smelly bait on my hands. I particularly enjoyed having an extremely civilised lunch in the 'dining room' of the fishing lodge with Ian and a couple of chaps who I didn't know from Adam, yet were so eager to talk and give me enthusiastic advice. And I was totally converted.

From that day on, no trout or salmon would be safe (or so I thought!).

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From the 'never to be published' book, HOOKED FOR LIFE