Goldfish and Beavers

So here’s why I was late for work Tuesday. I was photographing the goldfish. My 7 year-old son rushed into the kitchen to tell me that those morons on the BBC’s kids’ channel want everyone to send in photographs of their pets. Since the only pet we own is a goldfish (Fishy, or ‘Fishy Malishy Golden Treasure Nemo’ to give him his full name) I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to persuade Fishy to come round the front of the bowl so I could take his picture, thus missing my train. Anyway, this is the best I could do.

Later that day, and to round out this picture of suburban weirdness, I went to be a helper at the same son’s Beavers troop (Beavers are the bit of the Scout Movement that comes before the Cubs, since you’re asking, although we really don’t know why called them Beavers. Why not Badgers? That’s a much better name). Anyway, what we wound up doing, in that cold scout hut Tuesday night, was improvising a sort of riotous relay race (involving a lot of those square carpet samples) because the vicar failed to show up to give a talk.

I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. Perhaps I want you to think of me as a sort of homely guy who’s got his priorities right or perhaps I’m looking for sympathy. Anyway, the vicar did show up in the end, only it was too late for him to give his talk so he cleverly seized the opportunity to discuss forgiveness with the boys, all of whom said they really did forgive him for being so late, except my son, who said ‘no’ quite loudly when asked. Afterwards the boys wrote letters to some Dutch Beavers because, we’re told, they all speak perfect English…