That’s what I told N, anyway.
Last April, he had the bright idea of getting an aquarium, so Isobel could watch and learn from fish going about their business whenever she liked. It originally sat in the sitting room, before he hauled it over to the kitchen (not without serious water-spilling, of course).
He did his research online and found a cool 30-litre glass cube, which he dressed up artfully with some plants and a selection of tropical fish: rubbernoses, cardinals, shrimp, golden rams and the like. So far, so good.
Before the summer was up, one fish (a rubbernose I think) started bobbing head up at the top. Someone warned N against naming fish, but he called it Bobby anyway. I never thought we’d feel so emotional the day Bobby expired.
Then his shrimp had group sex, and there were at least three incidents of bullying or cannibalism. On one occasion, we found another rubbernose with an entire stomach missing. Next we looked, only the head remained. A fishy emulation of the horse’s head perhaps?
Today, a golden ram was found lying at the bottom of the tank. Its eyes had been gored out. I had an inkling fish could be territorial, but this was worse than the Mafia. That’s when I made my bloodshed remark.
Martin Scorsese would have been proud.