Lucy Butterfield

This week I’m pet-sitting. Last night the lovely goldfish Stuart was ceremonially placed on my bedside table whilst his mother bade him a tearful farewell (we couldn’t tell whether Stuart was crying, what with him being in water and all).

The addition of a fish to my room has brought back childhood memories aplenty. Like many children, I went through a veritable shoal of goldfish, most of which did not end up performing heartwarming reunions with their parents in the sea á la Nemo.

Take the time my mother decided to paint my room with the goldfish still in it. The fumes didn’t do Fred much good. I was found screaming my head off in a newly pink room, in front of a bowl which contained a fish not only belly-up, but also half disintegrated.

Not ideal.

Stuart and I however, are getting on splendidly. He is so wonderful in fact that I don’t think I will even bother eating him on Treat Day.

New frontiers of procrastination have been reached. Who knew watching a fish could be so interesting? During one of these many reveries assailing me lately, I experienced a flash of fishspiration.

In many ways we are not dissimilar from our bescaled friends. The three second memory is apparently a myth (probably created by STUPID MEN in a bid to squash woman and fishkind alike) but fish still forget most things within a month or two. And, in many ways, so do we.

I don’t remember anything about my GCSEs, or A-Levels for that matter, apart from being very worried about photosynthesis for the former, and equally concerned about Mahler for the latter. The rest is a forgotten blur.

Next term we will endeavour to fill our brains with everything we’ve learnt in the past year (or two years if you’re unfortunate enough to be studying English) before promptly forgetting it all in that wonderful alcohol-fuelled haze of May Week.

So remember my doves, that although we are currently fighting our way through the turbulent waters of Lent, with the maelstrom of Easter yet to be confronted, soon we shall be drifting lazily in the calm of summer with no memory at all of what has passed.