Big Fish, Little Fish

There will be no cardboard box – there’s no use crying! – the title has an entirely different derivation.  When I was but a callow youth (as opposed to the callow adult that stands before you today), there was broadcast an American TV series called Big John, Little John.  In this a middle-aged man would revert to being a 12 year old boy at random (or, more plausibly, when required by the plot) as a result of sipping from the fountain of youth.  To the best of my knowledge, I have never partaken of the fountain of youth – and the growing decrepitude of my body would support this assertion – but I oft feel that mentally I swing randomly between Big Fish (a man with a mental age broadly cognate with the physical) and Little Fish (a man with thoughts more appropriate to one with roughly 12 summers under his belt).

In my last post, I was trying to project the Big Fish at salivating hordes that comprise the GofaDM readership – but over the two hours of the film both fishes (oddly appropriate for a chap born in late February) had their part to play.  Given the subject matter of the film, the vast majority of the slightly sparse audience were younger than me – though there was an elderly couple and she clearly had poor eyesight so he had to read any text to her in a rather loud stage whisper (it was like being at an audio-described performance).  Little Fish was rather hoping to spot something in the audience, and was almost disappointed – but finally, it did yield a single chap with a T-shirt advertising a band at the metal-end of the musical spectrum and sporting both a pony tail and curious facial hair.   Either the audience was very low on people from IT, or fashion has moved on from my stereotype.  Does anyone else add this I-Spy element to their people spotting?  Are you more diligent at updating your stereotypes?  Anyway, Big Fish re-asserted himself in time to despair at how little he had achieved (or was likely to) compared to the 29 year old Ed Snowden.

Yesterday, I had a shower: yes, I do like to be able to show a clean pair of heel to my readers.  For some reason, and for the first time in 48.5 years on this planet, I found myself attempting to see how effective my bath towel would be as a toga.  I can’t believe I hadn’t tried this before – though I will have to admit that even a bath sheet is less than wholly successful in emulating Roman garb (a fact ignored by Douglas Adams).  The material is both too thick and lacking in surface area to en-toga the full, fabulous extent of the author.  Little Fish will have another go on laundry day when a real sheet can be put through its paces – though the fact my sheets are fitted (too lazy to make my own hospital corners, I’m afraid) may count against them.

Today, I had to sign some official forms and ask a neighbour to witness my signature (which I will freely admit is not one of the more exciting physical activities which I can perform and could have asked him to witness – I’ll have to save my Dying Swan for another time).  These forms have a rather serious purpose, but Little Fish has become obsessed by the organisation which issued them.  He now wants Alan Eccles job.  “Who he?” you ask, like the easily-led simpletons a lesser author might take you to be.  He is the man in charge of the Office of the Public Guardian and so has the job title of Public Guardian.  I do like to imagine him with a cape and lycra, though his photo on the official OPG website shows him in Clark Kent mode (suit and glasses).  I feel his secret identity would have been better preserved had this website not also revealed both his name and super-hero identity:  Schoolboy error!  (Or if you prefer, and in the interests of gender quality, schoolgirl error!).

Well, I suppose both fishes ought to go off and do something a little more productive this Sunday afternoon – or Big Fish will continue to bemoan how little contribution he has made to the world – but first I think we will both enjoy a pear (the ideal fruit for the bifurcated personality with a love of homophones).

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