It’s always pleasant to spend a weekend at home. It doesn’t happen very often, which is probably why when I do I get fixated about certain domestic problems. This weekend I have been very worried about the goldfish.
I’m not sure where to classify fish in the domestic agenda – they’re hardly pets in that you don’t take them for walks and they don’t snuggle up on your lap of an evening (or if they did either of those things then it wouldn’t last for long.) I never expected, let alone planned, to have fish in the house, except those in the freezer, that is. But earlier this year the missus sheepishly admitted that she had been hiding a fish she had been given at work, but now it had to come home. Quite what kind of commercial company gives live fish to partners as a thank you present I really don’t know, but the result was we had a goldfish swimming in a little round bowl in the kitchen. That all seemed a bit too comic-book to me so I checked up a few things and found out that it is actually illegal to keep fish in this little round bowls. I have no particular feelings for fish; I never think about them except to wonder if I’d like them fried or grilled, but to find we were keeping a small fish in a torture environment didn’t lie well. I know it was wearing an orange suit but that didn’t mean to say we should treat it as if it was in Guantanamo. I went out and bought a much larger tank. It was called a starter tank, and it was cheap and it was made of plastic. I added an oxygen pump and the fish seemed to be delighted with its new home. Then I made the mistake of trying to move the tank when it still had water in it, and the result, predictably enough, was that the plastic sides of the tank split. Not seriously, but if left for 24 hours the fish would trying out what it was like to live without water. I went out and bought a bigger tank and one that was made a glass. A proper, no buggering-around tank. It cost more than I would have thought it should, but it included a filter pump so that seemed OK. The trouble was the tank now seemed very big for a single fish so the missus and I went out and bought him or her a companion. So now we have two gold fish. The problem we have now is that the little fish in the round bowl that the missus brought home has now turned into a monster fish – the missus refers to it as o tubarão (the shark) and its little companion is catching up fast. Now the large tank doesn’t seem large enough, and I’m measuring up for an even bigger tank which will cost huge amounts of money. In fact, we are even thinking of moving in with the fish, the tank is so large.
So that’s one problem with the fish – accommodation. The other is to do with guilt. These fish are smarter than I had been led to believe fish could be. They recognise voices and realise that I’m the soft touch when it comes to feeding and I get the full mouthy mouthy me! me! me! treatment every morning and, because they live in the kitchen (for now) they watch me when I’m busy preparing food or whatever. So much so that tonight, when I was preparing some fish for us to eat I made a point of standing between the hake and the goldfish so they couldn’t see what I was wielding a knife to. It’s become pretty bad when I’m being terrorised by a pair of goldfish but that’s how it is. You don’t need Great Whites in the bay to be terrified of the water. I’m assuming that when I buy the next sized tank – as I inevitably will – then the fish will simply grow to fill it. And what then?
In retrospect, keeping goldfish in small, round bowls seems like a good thing and no doubt was the result of centuries of experimentation, the lessons from which I am now having to relearn. So curses to the do-gooders who said small bowls are bad.
Next week I’m going to tell you about my problems with orchids. Probably see you in a fortnight, then.
Leave a comment