Monday, 15th May.
Fish can't really be on their last legs, but if they had legs, then the fish
in the eski would've been on it's last amphibious legs. (I have just found out
that the English don't know what an eski is! Heathens!) Last week there had
been two sick fish in there. They had both spent periods in the constipation
tank, but were slowly slipping away from us. One had died last week.
So the remaining fish had died, and when I got home the lads decided to hold a funeral
for the ex-fish. Jules was wandering around with no shirt on, not for any
macho purposes but rather he got extremely sunburnt playing tennis yesterday.
Si had a coathanger on his head (don't ask, we didn't). The rest of us donned
headgear (papers or magazines draped over our heads much like some people use
the Footy Record as protection against the rain at a suburban ground on a
Saturday afternoon) and headed for the toilet. The four of us only just fitted
around the crapper. Jules held the fish over the bowl.
"We commit thee to the deep!" In it plopped. It bobbed in the water for a
moment, then Mox pulled the chain. Swept into the sewers of London.