A mighty fin

I am having a trying day. After an exhausting night dreaming of smoking crack and dismembering chickens whilst a sadistic mosquito toured my hairline, eyelids and inner ears, a day on the corridor of ennui, where none but the most dedicatedly insane interns remain at this point in the year, is more than my half baked flesh and blood can stand. Not even the Net à Porter sale has managed to raise my spirits. And the small part of my mind that is not on a Panamanian beach with Wentworth Miller is thinking about fish.


I am wondering what went on in the fish tank in our absence. On the surface all looks calm, and the survival rate is astonishingly high given they were left alone for two weeks without sustenance (I know, I know. I had a fish feeder lined up alright? But it fell through and I spend two weeks agonising). However one fish has vanished without a trace. There is nothing left of it at all. Nothing, I tell you, nary a fin.

In my head I am imagining a cross between Finding Nemo, Alive and Scott of the Antarctic. A tale of solidarity, self-sacrifice and cannibalism, when ordinary fish become extraordinary. Soon to be a major motion picture featuring:

Citron and Banane

As the selfless hero and his devastated beautiful partner (I am thinking Wentworth, obviously, in a breakthrough cinema role as Citron, and maybe St Angelina as Banane)

Féroce

The Don Corleone of the tank. A brooding, powerful presence. I'd like Michael Gambon.

The Pontipines

Light relief in an unremittingly dark situation. Full of human (fishly?) frailty and humour. Maybe voiced by the actual Pontipines.

The scenario needs fleshing (ahem) out, but I am thinking something like this:

For three days, all continues as normal in the fish tank. But by day 4 a murmur of anxiety is going around the colony. Teeny tiny pontipines whisper to each other. Citron and Banane weave close to the surface looking out for signs of human activity. Hoover gets on with hoovering the murk. Féroce, whose heart is black as his fins are lavish, stays hidden in his understone cavern, brooding.

By the end of the first week, the tank is in a frenzy of hunger and anxiety. A deputation of teeny tinty pontipines goes to seek out Féroce in his understone lair.

TTPs: Féroce! The humans are gone! We have lifted all the teeny tiny stones in the tank and sucked all the nutrients off them. Hoover has eaten all the slime. What shall we do? We are all going to die!

Féroce, waves his fins languidly for a moment. The teeny tiny pontipines fall silent, waiting for his verdict.

Féroce: Aquarium meeting. Tonight, at dusk, by the pump.

The pontypines retire, in a buzz of barely supressed excitement. By late afternoon, the whole colony has gathered by the pump. The anticipation is palpable. There is a sudden chill in the water and Féroce appears. A hush falls among the assembled mass.

Féroce: Fellow fish, as you know, we face a dire situation. The humans have gone, and the food has run out. In order to guarantee the survival of the colony, we require ...

...

....

a SACRIFICE.

A hush falls on the gathering. No fish can quite look another in the eye.

Féroce: Who among you is willing to put himself forward for the good of the tank?

Banane senses Citron shifting a fin beside her.

Banane: Citron! Don't be a hero honey! I need you! Our eggs need you!

Citron: I have to baby. This thing is bigger than me, or you, or anyone here. The tank needs me. Tell our eggs I love them.


In mounting awe, everyone watches as Citron swims forward to address the gathering.

Citron: I'll do this thing. But I want you all to promise me that you'll take good care of Banane and the kids and I want you to make this tank a better place, a place full of hope and love.

Féroce solemnly shakes Citron's fin. The pontipines cheer.

What happens next will depend on the certification we're looking for I suppose.... But like I say: nothing. left.