Lucky Fish

While we were in Spain I left The House in the Middle of the Street with The Siamese Princess, Big-Boned BabyCat and The Big Black Dog in the capable hands of my friend, The Pond. When I landed in The City Beneath the Mountain after our trip to Spain I turned on my phone, as one does. There was a message from The Pond:

Hello, it’s me. Everything is fine at your house. Call me if you have any questions about the dog or cats. Or fish. Byeee.

Fish? I wondered if I’d heard right, having just flown and my ears being slightly blocked. I was sure I’d misheard, so left it at that, choosing to make numerous happy-I’m-home phonecalls all starting with the obligatory “Hola! Como estas?” that is necessary after a Spanish holiday.

On entering my kitchen I realised that my ears had not in fact been that blocked. There on the kitchen table in what I can only explain as an enormous champagne glass was a lone goldfish, swimming around and around, as goldfishes are meant to do.

We nodded (well, I nodded, he kind of waved a fin) in slightly embarassed acknowledgement of each other’s presence, not really knowing what to say, and I sidled off to wash airport off me, not seeing him again until the next morning.

In between time I called The Pond and exclaimed my horror of her not telling me the name of my houseguest, and therefore causing the embarrassed encounter.

His name is Lucky. I introduced myself at breakfast while he eyed my oatmeal porridge. The Pond says I may not give him any, no matter how much he looks at it. I enquired whether a boiled egg and toasty soldiers were a better option and she tutted and mumbled something about coming to collect him, possibly within minutes.

In the meantime, I’m to give him only three little flakey things each day. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not a goldfish, even one called Lucky Fish.

A weekend in the country

I went away for the weekend to a funny little house on a baby dam overlooking a big dam with a huge sky above it. The sun set behind the big dam each evening flinging beautiful pinks and oranges across said huge sky. There were five of us, old friends, and the Big Black Dog (BBD) who C kindly sat squashed up with in the back of the car. She thought she’d died and gone to heaven (the BBD, not C.) It was lovely. On Friday we went into the little village across the valley for lunch and Shuzie wondered what I’d blog about. There was much blog fodder.

I could blog about the little house, with its neighbours sitting on top of us, their bathroom just on the other side of Pop and Shuzie’s bedroom, providing them with late night irritation entertainment of the bath/toilet sounds variety. Or the fact that the other three of us slept in the lounge, allowing for cosy five-in-a-bed lazy mornings of tea, chat, and impromptu Thirty Seconds challenges.

Or I could blog about the delicious lunch we had at a hidden little restaurant where a simley (moon-faced) Zimbabwean waiter served us cold beers in salad dressing bottles, ‘beautiful baby potatoes’ and risotto with ‘delicious pea sprouts’ from the restaurant garden and ginger beer out of a can which the barman swore had bits of ginger in it (as opposed to the rust it really was.) The BBD fell in love with a very elegant golden retriever and whined like a teenager to be set free to go and snog (or whatever Big Black Dogs do to their loves) around the corner.

Or I could blog about the prawns on a braai supper we had, followed by a Thirty Seconds competition as the most enormous wind storm buffeted the funny little house on a baby dam overlooking a big dam with a huge sky above it for the whole first night. I thought the roof would blow of. It didn’t.

Or I could blog about Pop, and her hair falling out in clumps from the chemo (she goes for her second session today) and our discussions of hats and scarves and healthy eating and how brave she’s being and how I want to wrap her in cotton wool and put her safely in a bejewelled box where she doesn’t need to go through all this, but that’s her story to blog.

Or I could blog about lunch at the place where the frogs live where we saw no frogs, ate not-particularly-good food but admired the deep blue of many, many peacocks and then went home to sit in front of the funny little house on a baby dam overlooking a big dam with a huge sky above it and looked at the dam and the sky and watched G and the BBD swim in the baby dam while fish jumped out around them, checking to see who was invading their territory.

Or I could blog about the revitalising feeling of spending a weekend with old friends who require no explanations, no airs and graces, no pretence. And then, a donkey to wave goodbye as we headed home toward the City Beneath the Mountain, a little cherry on top.

Or I could just not say anything about it, couldn’t I?

A fishy tale

On Sunday G and I braved The Monstrous Shopping Mall (MSM) to get my phone upgrade, pay bills, and do (generally boring) shopping-type things. During the course of the afternoon we paid a visit to the toilet, as one does. We visited the ‘Moms-and-tots’ toilet, a small room in which there is an ‘adult’ toilet next to a ‘kiddy’ toilet, and the same with basins. As is fairly usual in MSM-type places, the toilet is an airless place with no outside light or air. Behind the side-by-side toilets, I kid you not, is a fish tank, set into the wall. A narrow little space, with a photo of waterplants stuck at the back and glass at the front. With fish in it.

I was horrified. I felt my latent-Greenpeace-hippy-activism rise, like bile, into my throat. Fish, swimming about, with nothing to see but mothers and tots (and me), peeing. Seems a little unfair to me. I decided to be a good citizen of the world and e-mailed them. This morning my phone rang (impressively), and on the other end was the MSM’s liason officer, or whatever she is. This was how our conversation went:

LO: Good morning Shiny, it’s LO here, in response to your mail.

Shiny: Hello, thanks for getting back to me.

LO: About the fish… Thank you for your concern. They are not actually anything to do with MSM and are looked after by an external fishy specialist.

Shiny: Right, but they’re in the MSM so, surely, you are ultimately responsible for them and it seems cruel and unnecessary to keep fish in an environment like that?

LO: They are fed and looked after by the fishy specialist who says they are perfectly happy there.

Shiny: I’m sure he does. He gets money from you every month for keeping them, as you call it, well-fed and ‘happy’.

LO: Yes, well, um, we have only had compliments from mothers before whose children can watch the fish while they finish their ‘business’.

Shiny: [sigh] Oh, right, well, as long as the moms and tots are happy, let’s forget about our finned friends. Thanks for getting back to me.

LO: Pleasure. Have a lovely day.

So now, I’m afraid, I am plotting. Human selfishness makes me cross. Children the world over have got along just fine for thousands of years while their mother’s finish their ‘business’ without putting little fish in tiny airless rooms behind glass, why the need now?

I have visions of G and I, balaclava-ed, leopard crawling through the MSM, Tupperware and net in hand, scooping our little fishy friends out of their tank and taking them down to the seaside to be released. I know, I know, they’re tropical and would probably freeze their fins off if I dumped them in the exceedingly cold Atlantic Ocean, but I’ll think of a better follow-up plan.

In the meantime, anyone know of a shop that stocks balaclavas (or maybe those Presidents of America rubbery masks)?

Sadness, but realisation

A girl that I knew from varsity died this week. I didn't know her well, but her then boyfriend (now husband) shared a digs with a good friend of mine, and her sister lived in a digs two doors down the road from my digs in third year. All unnecessary detail in the greater scheme of things. She was one of those people that glowed, and oozed happiness. She always smiled. Though I didn't know her well, she always seemed like someone you would love. She was thirty three and breast cancer got her.

There is a Facebook page to celebrate her life with lots of photos. She is radiant in every, single, one (and there are 100's). The whole Facebook in memoriam idea, I'm not too sure of, but seeing this, perhaps my thoughts change. A place to share love, memories, a cyber-version of a wake, when we find ourselves unable to meet in the same place due to the fact that we're scattered throughout the world? Perhaps not such a bad idea.

My overwhelming sense of sadness for her husband - a sweet, gentle guy who I remember seeing with her at varsity. They were one of those couples that just fitted and obviously, looking at the photos, still fitted perfectly, now, 13 years later. I hope he can find some sense of being okay. I cannot imagine how, but I do hope he does.

The thing is, it got me thinking about how little time we really have. It's so easy to get swallowed up by the monotony of The Grindstone, paying bills, cleaning the kitchen floor... When, really, we need to stop, look up, smile, live. Fuck the kitchen floor. And with that, I'm going off with my friend C, to see the whales in Kalk Bay, eat fresh fish at the harbour, and admire the most beautiful day we've got here in The City Beneath the Mountain.

Who could ask for more?