*Worried eyes, glancing feverishly left and right, and then back again. And then back again again*
*Heavy, panicked breathing*
*Rustly, unidentifiable noises*
*Sound of heavy door shutting, then being locked. Then bolted. Then padlocked. Then welded shut. Then plastered over and painted to match the surroundings. Then sticking ivy over it so it looks like it's been like that for years*
And . . . we're safe!
Sorry about that. But I could be in trouble.
It's been some weeks since I posted on The Gravel Farm, and according to scripture, this is in direct breach of a contract that is so binding, so utterly unbreakable, that one does not even have to have signed it for it to be applicable to you. Or even know of it's existence. That's how solid a contract it is.
You start a blog, and you're in!
One of my unidentifiable sources (a ragamuffin from the notorious street gang, The Bran Eating Regulars) reported that an agent from The Department of Blogging was seen sniffing around The Gravel Farm. Now obviously, I was dubious, because such agents don't identify themselves, and one must rely on spotting the subtle signs that such a powerful individual can't help but possess.
In this case, the indications that he might be someone to be wary of were the the cape, purple top hat and extra head. Not many people wear a purple top hat.
And so I have prudently taken my source's advice and hidden away for a minute in the shed with a laptop.
It goes without saying that I don't wish to get in trouble with the DoB, because they could revoke my All Areas Pass, which allows me to enter any premises in the world in the name of blogging. They might also get brutal and remove my blogging finger, the one with the big callous.
So, I will post something.
Something momentous. Something to ponder, and to cause outcry, to challenge, to make the most hardened reader consider the ramifications of what they have just perused.
I saw this fish for sale the the other day:
I mean, what the hell is it?
A lumpfish? A dulltail? A depression loach?
It was in amongst the exotic denizens of our local aquaria emporia, where jewel-like flashes compete for your attention with multi-coloured swarms of piscine loveliness. There it sat, and I didn't even know fish could sit, but it did, like a an old sausage roll with eyes, gently swaying in the wake of other, more lively fish.
It took me moment to realise it wasn't actually dead.
I bet if it saw it's reflection, it'd just go and drown itself.
Er . . .
Anyway, it was also on offer, which can't add to any self-esteem it already doesn't have, but there still weren't many takers. It would hardly brighten up an aquarium, would it, and unless it has some really useful trait like producing caviar or helping do cryptic crosswords, then I fail to see the attraction.
Still, I am no expert in fish and/or the collection thereof, so perhaps I'm missing something. I mean, if looks were anything to go on, we'd stay away from cod, and steer completely clear of monkfish, two of the most delicious fishies to ever grace a griddle.
Or maybe it's one of those subjective, eye of the beholder situations, and I'm just not subjective enough.
I suppose it could be a cunning marketing ruse whereby a large section of society has been woefully persuaded that something intrinsically worthless is actually special and deserving of both comment and attention. It's like the Paris Hilton of fish. Only fatter.