Twelve Years And Counting In A Goldfish Bowl
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: If memory serves...
_____________________________________________________________________
I was really happy at the funfair, I had friends of a similar age and mindset to play with..... happy times. The bright, colourful lights were a constant source of wonderment to us and the vibrations of the pop songs had us dancing like Bass all night long. OK, we weren’t Bass, not even related I don’t think, I used that particular fish as something of a metaphor since the Bass notes were what gave us the inclination to throw a few shapes.
I was a Goldfish......am a Goldfish, one of many at the time and now alone in this bowl for all of these years, twelve and counting.
They named me Hoop-La, seemingly because they won me at the Hoop-La stall. I’ve learned to live with the indignation of it all but I can’t for the life of me remember exactly when anyone addressed me as such.
Four of them at first. Two tall and two short. I had no problems with the taller pair but those kids, the shorter duo, had an insatiable curiosity for yours truly. Alone with me in the room, the best room no less, they constantly tried to capture me using all manner of implements but I was always too quick for them. Often, they would try to lull me into a false sense of security by gently running a hand across the surface of my bowl, then making a stab at trying to snare me but I’m happy to say they never once succeeded. There was that incident with the egg-whisk but I’m trying really hard to forget about that; it’s something of a recurring nightmare.
I wasn’t the only pet. A Cat and a Dog made up the household and the Cat was just as curious as the kids; and infinitely more cunning. He would keep a watchful eye on me for hours on end but soon learnt he didn’t like to get his paws wet, much to my relief.
The Cat and Dog didn’t care much for each other and it’s really down to them as the cause of the flit to my current home. Instead of eliminating either the Dog or the Cat from the equation, it was decided to move me to a place of relative safety.
Twelve years, I’ve been in this room for twelve years now. The old couple were quite sprightly at first.....and eccentric. They talked all day to a Canary who refused to pass comment, he was a bloody good whistler though. The old dears spoke to him but seldom to each other unless they were shouting. I don’t know how old the Canary was but I had the pleasure of his company for a good five years before he fell off his perch.
When they moved the bird-cage they found a damp patch on the wall and decided it was time to re-decorate. That decorator was the only other person to enter the room, until about six weeks ago that is. The tosser flicked cigarette ash into my bowl and was about to rinse one of his brushes when the old dear came in with the tea and biscuits.
Television, all they did was watch television, often fighting over the remote control. After the room had been re-decorated they experimented with the lay-out of the furniture, finally reaching a truce of sorts which resulted in my being deprived of my favourite television shows, although I had the consolation of being able to hear them; they were both half deaf and had the volume set to high. They took turn about at cleaning out my bowl but the feeding was pretty much a random thing. I’d say I was more overfed than under to be absolutely fair.
There was a spell where I had access to the telly again and I could at last put faces to voices, so many new characters had been introduced to my favourite shows. A mirror, the old boy brought a mirror in from another room somewhere and propped it against one of the chairs at my table. I think it was his intention to fix it at some point, put a new string on the back of it so’s he could re-hang it where it belonged. My joy lasted seven months almost before the old dear let the vacuum cleaner get away from her and the mirror fragmented when it hit the floor. There was a doozie of a rammy about that one and I did well to keep myself out of it.
After that it was back to staring at the back of the old boy’s ugly head, he had some really interesting scars. I say ‘had’, the old boy disappeared about seven weeks ago and the old dear took to the gin in a big way. A week later I was surrounded on all sides by trays of sandwiches, sausage rolls, cakes and those vol-au-vent thingies, and not only that, more people than I’ve seen since my days at the funfair, all dressed in black.
I had whisky that day, vodka too and a big green ball of snot, which in my drunken stupor I mistook for food. My mistake so I’ll just have to live with it. I had a head like Birkenhead the following morning.
The old dear cries all day and night now, bemoaning her loss to the extent I can no longer hear what’s going on with my shows. She drinks gin at all hours, forgets to eat, forgets to both feed me and clean out my bowl. I have a film to watch now. It has formed on the inside of my bowl, either that or my eyes are going.
They say we Goldfish have no memory, no real span of attention but I’m here to refute that. Just last night I brought to mind a thumping Bass line from my days on the stall, and that was twelve years ago. Twelve years, where does the time go?
I’m getting worried now, really worried. Before she crawled off to bed the old dear lobbed her false teeth into my bowl. Ok, I found a few tasty morsels when I finally plucked up enough courage to approach and investigate but that’s not the point; that’s not the point at all.
Swearwords: None.
Description: If memory serves...
_____________________________________________________________________
I was really happy at the funfair, I had friends of a similar age and mindset to play with..... happy times. The bright, colourful lights were a constant source of wonderment to us and the vibrations of the pop songs had us dancing like Bass all night long. OK, we weren’t Bass, not even related I don’t think, I used that particular fish as something of a metaphor since the Bass notes were what gave us the inclination to throw a few shapes.
I was a Goldfish......am a Goldfish, one of many at the time and now alone in this bowl for all of these years, twelve and counting.
They named me Hoop-La, seemingly because they won me at the Hoop-La stall. I’ve learned to live with the indignation of it all but I can’t for the life of me remember exactly when anyone addressed me as such.
Four of them at first. Two tall and two short. I had no problems with the taller pair but those kids, the shorter duo, had an insatiable curiosity for yours truly. Alone with me in the room, the best room no less, they constantly tried to capture me using all manner of implements but I was always too quick for them. Often, they would try to lull me into a false sense of security by gently running a hand across the surface of my bowl, then making a stab at trying to snare me but I’m happy to say they never once succeeded. There was that incident with the egg-whisk but I’m trying really hard to forget about that; it’s something of a recurring nightmare.
I wasn’t the only pet. A Cat and a Dog made up the household and the Cat was just as curious as the kids; and infinitely more cunning. He would keep a watchful eye on me for hours on end but soon learnt he didn’t like to get his paws wet, much to my relief.
The Cat and Dog didn’t care much for each other and it’s really down to them as the cause of the flit to my current home. Instead of eliminating either the Dog or the Cat from the equation, it was decided to move me to a place of relative safety.
Twelve years, I’ve been in this room for twelve years now. The old couple were quite sprightly at first.....and eccentric. They talked all day to a Canary who refused to pass comment, he was a bloody good whistler though. The old dears spoke to him but seldom to each other unless they were shouting. I don’t know how old the Canary was but I had the pleasure of his company for a good five years before he fell off his perch.
When they moved the bird-cage they found a damp patch on the wall and decided it was time to re-decorate. That decorator was the only other person to enter the room, until about six weeks ago that is. The tosser flicked cigarette ash into my bowl and was about to rinse one of his brushes when the old dear came in with the tea and biscuits.
Television, all they did was watch television, often fighting over the remote control. After the room had been re-decorated they experimented with the lay-out of the furniture, finally reaching a truce of sorts which resulted in my being deprived of my favourite television shows, although I had the consolation of being able to hear them; they were both half deaf and had the volume set to high. They took turn about at cleaning out my bowl but the feeding was pretty much a random thing. I’d say I was more overfed than under to be absolutely fair.
There was a spell where I had access to the telly again and I could at last put faces to voices, so many new characters had been introduced to my favourite shows. A mirror, the old boy brought a mirror in from another room somewhere and propped it against one of the chairs at my table. I think it was his intention to fix it at some point, put a new string on the back of it so’s he could re-hang it where it belonged. My joy lasted seven months almost before the old dear let the vacuum cleaner get away from her and the mirror fragmented when it hit the floor. There was a doozie of a rammy about that one and I did well to keep myself out of it.
After that it was back to staring at the back of the old boy’s ugly head, he had some really interesting scars. I say ‘had’, the old boy disappeared about seven weeks ago and the old dear took to the gin in a big way. A week later I was surrounded on all sides by trays of sandwiches, sausage rolls, cakes and those vol-au-vent thingies, and not only that, more people than I’ve seen since my days at the funfair, all dressed in black.
I had whisky that day, vodka too and a big green ball of snot, which in my drunken stupor I mistook for food. My mistake so I’ll just have to live with it. I had a head like Birkenhead the following morning.
The old dear cries all day and night now, bemoaning her loss to the extent I can no longer hear what’s going on with my shows. She drinks gin at all hours, forgets to eat, forgets to both feed me and clean out my bowl. I have a film to watch now. It has formed on the inside of my bowl, either that or my eyes are going.
They say we Goldfish have no memory, no real span of attention but I’m here to refute that. Just last night I brought to mind a thumping Bass line from my days on the stall, and that was twelve years ago. Twelve years, where does the time go?
I’m getting worried now, really worried. Before she crawled off to bed the old dear lobbed her false teeth into my bowl. Ok, I found a few tasty morsels when I finally plucked up enough courage to approach and investigate but that’s not the point; that’s not the point at all.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He has a number of publications to his name, including Coont Thum and Tattie Zkowen's Perfect Days, both of which have been published by McStorytellers.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.