Monday, 15th May.
Truly Finished

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.