I love my goldfish, I really do. One is called Gold, the other is called Fish. I keep them in a traditional glass goldfish bowl. It sits on my sideboard alongside Tom. Tom is a stuffed cat. When he was alive he belonged to my Aunt Avril, when he died she couldn't bear to bury him so she had him stuffed. Then she gave him to me for Christmas. She's generous like that. It was at Christmas that I promised my services to her local village fete. I was very drunk. She lives in a lovely chocolate box village in deepest darkest Kent, her cottage is thatched and roses grow around her door [honest]. I thought she'd get me to help out in the beer tent or put me in charge of the Tombola. I was wrong. She's got me down as the fortune teller. The poster describes me as 'The Legendary Zelda', as the 'Star Attraction'. I tried to tell her that I'd be a rubbish fortune teller, but then she did that manipulative mean thing that old people do so well. Apparently, during the family Christmas party, I was seen cavorting in my mum's utility room with my cousin Tony on top of the washing machine: legs akimbo and knickers round my ankles. Was this something that Sylvie, his wife, ought to hear about? . . . Well no . . . I'd rather she didn't.
I am now having a vision of myself making a pair of goldfish homeless . . . perhaps I will get them stuffed and wrapped for Christmas . . .