The day started just like any other Thursday morning - dew-soaked grass, chirping from the birds, Terry Wogan's soothing voice mixed with jovial quips that would not be out of place inside a Christmas cracker, the postman knocking the front door quickly and then hoping no-one would answer before shoving a crumpled 'I tried to deliver but you were not in' leaflet through the door followed by hurried footsteps, and a dead goldfish.
The goldfish or 'goldie' as he was known to the hipsters in an ironic manner, was a happy go lucky fish who would not bat an eyelid at giving his worldly possessions to a passer by. I did not notice until after his death that he did not possess any eyelids, and he did not possess any pockets to keep stuff either. That is besides the point though, as if he did have eyelids and worldly possessions he would be batting them all day long and giving the possessions away willy-nilly.
The first sign of Goldie's demise was that he was floating on the surface of the water, and I knew that he was more of a breast-stroke man. Floating on the surface was strictly the preserve of chav fish like Cod and Salmon. On closer inspection I saw a large bruise on his fin, and he was sporting a black eye. This reeked of fishacide.
I hadn't changed the water for a few months, so it may have been fish jobbies, but it definitely reeked of fishacide too.
Immediately, I blamed myself. I had positioned the fish bowl facing the television so that he could enjoy Eastenders and Supermarket Sweep while I was at work in the helium factory. If I had left my job two weeks earlier this would never have happened. I only left the helium factory after an argument with my boss. I simply refused to be spoken to in that tone of voice.
Alas, Goldie became a fan of MTV and he would watch endless marathons of 'Jackass' and 'Dirty Sanchez'. It was inevitable that he would discard the 'do not try this at home' warnings which were written in English and not Finglish.
It was only when I was cleaning the fishbowl that I noticed he had arranged the rocks at the bottom of the bowl to spell out 'fhgewkgn', that I realised this was murder.
I hired a new fish called Columbo, and tasked it with solving the case. He would often gather me and my relatives into the front room and speak gibberish for several minutes and to be honest we all felt it was a little silly. Just as we were turning to leave the room, he would suddenly swim back to the glass as if he had just remembered something. It was very plausible at the time as goldfish have only a memory of a few seconds. (Goldie would always laugh his fins off at 'Last Of The Summerwine' no matter how many times Clegg would roll down a hill in a bath-tub).
Columbo solved the case, it turned out that fish were not supposed to have a leash around their neck and taken for walks around the garden.
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