The Goldfish Who Lived (2014)
I wake up every morning fearing that Stefan might be dead.
I don’t know why: it’s pretty accurate to say that I now take better care of the goldfish than I do of our dog. I’ve put him right next to the Tassimo, entirely because I know that I will never go without my morning coffee and therefore my memory will trigger and the little dude will always get fed.
I give him those flakes. You know: the big dandruff ones from Pets at Home. I think he likes them.
I clean his tank about once a month because he’s a dirty little bastard of a goldfish and somehow excretes a sort of solid miasma that turns the tank black.
I blast hisfilter through with a jet of tap water about once a week: if I don’t, a strange kind of seaweed Cthulhu(ish) clingy mass forms in the gaps that support the fan.
His tank is a decent size for a goldsh: it’s not a palace, but it’s not a bowl either.
I never asked for Stefan, and I certainly didn’t name him... but it is completely my fault that he lives in our house.
Completely my fault.
I orchestrated the conversation with my soon-to-be five-year-old son that went something like this.
‘What would you like for your birthday, Bast?’
A shrug. ‘I don’t know, Dad. More WWE wrestlers?’
‘You’ve got loads of them.’
‘I like them.’
‘I know, but you don’t need any more.’
‘I still need Chris Jericho.’
‘Yeah, well, apart from Chris Jericho you don’t need any more....and Chris Jericho would be quite a small present.’ (He was on offer at Smyths, so we’ve already got him hidden away).
‘I’m not sure, then: I don’t really want anything....’
‘....apart from a goldfish.’
He looks up at me, his face suddenly frozen in confusion. ‘A what, Dad?’
‘You know what a goldfish is.’
‘
Yeah, but why would I want one?’
‘WHY? Are you crazy? A goldfish would be like your best friend. You could feed him and watch him swim around! He could sleep in your room with you, keep you company at night-‘
‘George keeps me company.’ (George is a stuffed hippo from the 80s kids' TV show, Rainbow)
‘George is a stuffed toy, Bast. He can’t talk to you.’
‘Can a goldfish talk to me?’
‘No, but he can listen. Like: a LOT.’
‘Really?’
‘
Yes.’
‘But George is my lucky best friend, Dad.’
‘I know, but George can still be your best friend. Barry would be your OTHER friend.’
‘Barry?’
‘The goldfish. I thought you could call him Barry, after Big Bad Barry: the fish in Peppa Pig.’
‘I’d call him Stefan, Dad.’
‘Stephen?’
‘No, Stefan. You’d say it ‘Stefaarrn.’
‘Oh. Right. Hey, it would be YOUR goldfish, son: you could call him whatever you want.’
‘I’m SO excited about Stefan now, Dad.’
‘Good boy!’
I clap my hands together, give my son a hug and immediately call my mum to ask her to go down to the pet shop and do all the boring stuff like actually buying the fish. I knew my wife wouldn’t be very happy about it because she is – what’s that word – sensible.
My son is going to be five years old, and he’s going to have his very own goldfish.
I am thrilled and excited: so excited.
That was then.
Now, Stefan is my goldfish. I know I deserve it: my wife reminds me every day. I talk to Stefan, I feed him every day, I clean his tank, and I change his water. He lived in Bast’s bedroom for three weeks, during which time he may well have died from malnutrition had I not saved his scaly little arse from the fires of my own stupidity. My little boy is five: he can’t take care of a goldfish. He can barely take care of himself.
Stefan, meanwhile, has a great life and shows no sign of slowing down.....and he’s turning out to be a survivor.
Joy.
