Gold (fish) Finger
My bestest pal, S, is a bit of a scaredy cat and is happy to admit it. Unlike me however, who is scared of nothing and no one. (*)


But she loves fish, however, only when they’re alive and swimming in a tank, not battered and deep fried and served with tartare sauce. As a kid, she always had a tank of goldfish, which she looked after carefully and proudly. However, being the squeamish sort, she didn’t really like taking them out of the tank to clean it, as they were a bit scaly and slimy, so she used to get her dad to do it.

She bought a new fish one day and asked was about to clean the tank before introducing him to his new piscine friends. Her dad was busy, and suggested to her that it was time that she got over her fear of fish handling and emptied the tank herself. So, she knuckled down and got on with it, carefully taking the two fish from the tank, getting it all sparkly, then popping them back in. She then took the new fishy over to the tank, removed him from his confines (probably some kind of bag) and let him free…

Only the little fucker was having none of it and jumped clean out of the cup he’d been scooped up in and made a break for it.

Down the back of the chest of drawers…

...that was attached to the wall… There was just enough gap for the slippery little devil to slide down the back and come to a choking halt on the carpet. She could see him flapping about, gasping his last, but was powerless to rescue him.

Subsequently she refused to enter her room until her dad had wrenched the cupboard free of the wall and given little fishy the burial he deserved.

20 years on, she still has nightmares that there are dying fish flapping around behind the units in her bedroom.

(*) Apart from heights, deep water, ferries, tin foil, things with no legs (not like, Douglas Bader, I mean maggots and worms), dying, mushroom soup and John Stapleton.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 15:55, Reply)