The Civil War

I went to the shop where my friend suggested I�d find what I was after. �Excuse me�, I said, �but I�d like to buy a wolf.�

�I�m terribly sorry�, said the pretty young shopkeeper, �but we�ve just sold the last one. He�s to be married to a nice Indian girl from Tooting Bec.�

�I was hoping he�d be able to give me lectures on recent cultural events while I sat in the bath and shaved my legs,� I said.

Her eyes were kind. I could see she wanted to help. �It just so happens,� she said, �that I�ve got one fish left. He�s an expert on international development and sustainable aid. He might know a little about opera.� I bought the fish.

We stopped off at a newsagent on the way home. The fish wanted to get the Financial Times. �Can you believe all these journalists going on about MPs expenses, when they�ve fiddled their own accounts since time immemorial?�

Arriving home, I ran a bath. I gestured to the bench in the bathroom and invited the fish to discuss the legacy of post-colonialism in Southern Rhodesia. The fish said, �you do know it�s now called Zimbabwe?�

The fish sat down on the bench, sipping a glass of Chablis. He snapped open the FT and explained, slightly muffled behind the salmon-coloured pages, that he didn�t want to see me naked. I slid into the bath and arranged the bubbles to cover my modesty, not wanting to offend the fish.

He lowered the newspaper and asked casually whether I had a cigarette he could pinch. �No,� I replied, �I don�t smoke.� He folded the FT and looked at me in the bath, as if what I was doing was in some way ridiculous. Finally he said, �a drink is too wet without a cigarette� and poured the Chablis down the sink.