#291

I would be purple with rage if I wasn't blue with the cold. These arctic waters aren't half nippy and this trawler net that I've been hauled up in isn't exactly keeping the wind out. It's full of holes. Why don't these fishermen think of these things when they are making their nets? No wonder the fishies get all cross, I should imagine they're blinking freezing as well.

Anyway, me and all the fishies have been winched up into the boat, splurged out onto the deck and I was just about the be gutted by a big hairy Norwegian fishy man, when I coughed politely and asked to see the captain.

"Here," said the fisherman, in Norwegian. "This fish can talk."

"I am not a fish," I replied, in British. "I am a human bean, and I demand my rights under the Geneva Convention, the Magna Carta and the Official Rules and Regulations of the North Yorkshire Crown Green Bowling Association.

"It's a very well-spoken fish," said the fisherman. "It says it wants to talk to the captain."

"Throw it back," said a grotty old seadog. "'Tis an omen, I tell 'e. Naught good will come of a talking fish. 'Tis the devil's work, I tell 'e."

The fisherman - my fisherman, the one who had his hand round my neck and the gutting knife poised to do its evil work - looked at the old seadog curiously. "Sometimes, Colin, I don't think you're Norwegian, like the rest of us."

"Oh, I be Norwegian, right enough," said the old seadog.

"You don't sound Norwegian," said the fisherman. "Where in Norway are you from?"

"I be from a little village near Oslo," the old seadog said, and when the fisherman pressed him for more information, he sheepishly replied, "Taunton."

Anyway, these jolly japes went on for a little bit longer, and they finally agreed that I could see the captain.