There are two fish tanks in that hut in the ecology park. One big one for all the stuff that’s supposed to be there – like a showcase of what you can’t see in the ponds because it’s all murky – and a smaller one. The small one’s called the rogues’ gallery. That’s what the woman said. Serious. It’s for all the stuff that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Stuff people throw in, or flush down the toilet cos they’re bored. Goldfish. Crabs. Turtles.
I don’t see why they can’t just live in the ponds with all the rest of the things, to be honest. Live and let live. Accommodate. Negotiate. Tolerate. Apparently it’s to do with natural balance. Food chains. Predators. You’ve got to feel sorry for them though, stuck in that tank, watching all the kids troop in and out. I held my face right up close to the glass last time I was there. I bet they think we’re ugly. I bet they watch us and think how weird we are, walking about on two stick legs, making all that noise.
We had a goldfish once. We bought it in a pet shop full of much more exciting things than goldfish. I wanted the puppy in the last cage. It had feet too big for its legs, ears too big for its head. Mum said we couldn’t have a dog like that in a place small as ours. It wouldn’t have minded a bit, I know that, but I’m not the one who gets to make the decisions in our family. That time, my brother was small enough to still be cute. He wanted a hamster, till he poked his finger through the wire and got himself bit. So it was a goldfish. We called it Sean; I can’t remember why. I remember when it died though. We made a boat out of one of those big match boxes, stuck a stick in for a mast and a triangle of a dishcloth for a sail. Whether I cried or not’s got nothing to do with you.
No comments:
Post a Comment