Two more fish have died and I’m really at my wits end to know what to do, it looks like we’re going to have to put the fish in a small holding tank and then completely empty and sterilise the big tank. It’s a massive undertaking and I’m not even sure if the fish will survive the upheaval of it all, but I’ve got to do something. The other thought is that there's a problem with the pump, as all the dead fish have been over that area of the tank. Maybe there's some sort of bacteria in it. Can you tell I’m grasping at straws yet?

To think that they managed to survive all that time after the old CEO left without anyone caring for them. Old history, but basically they were her fish and as she wasn’t the best liked person around these part; the fish caught the cop out after she left. No one bothered with them, they were lucky to be fed. In fact if the water hadn’t started to smell I doubt we’d have notice just how bad it had got. After that, Craig & I took over their care and we’d got to the point that the fish had even started to breed, a sure sign that all is right in their world.

It’s certainly not any more – it’s more like the Black Death has struck. You can tell how bad it is, they’ve even stopped cracking jokes about it around here now.

++++

We were continuing to sort through the boxes in the shed yesterday and I came across all my old birthday cards from when I was 13, up to and including my 21st. Yes, I’m a hoarder and at times I’m glad I am. I had cards there from my Nan; in which she'd written me lots of little messages that reminded me just how much I loved her. I also realised that I'd forgotten that she'd always called me Susan, never Sue - one of the very few people that called me by my given name all of the time.

We came across a little gold mine of really old photos that my Granddad had taken, including a photo of him that I don’t remember seeing before. He used to develop all his own photos and had a real love of photography. I shared a few of the snaps with Scally, Chris & Pooks, including this one:

Now don’t let it be said that I can’t laugh at myself. In it I look a cross between the Michelin Man and one of Santa’s Little Helpers. If you look closely you can see my Nan crouched down behind me – obviously they thought I was going to fall off the steps. My dad could remember the photo being taken, he said that they tried everything to get me to actually look into the camera and I wouldn’t.

There’s a photo of me with wild curly blonde hair – my mother obviously being of the generation that believed it was cute. Another one taken with me holding a doll and yet another with me holding a handbag with our pet spaniel in the back ground. That brought a lump to my throat – he was my first dog and I clearly remember him being very tall; to my mind the same size as a labardor. Which is obviously to do with the fact I was only three at the time and a not very tall three year old at that. His name was Paddy Paws and he was black and white.

I can still remember my mum sitting with me on the sofa, trying very hard not to cry, telling me that he wasn’t very well. His kidneys were failing and he needed to go to the vets to be put to sleep. She told me that he was in pain and because we loved him, we had to let him go - I can't say I was very happy about her attitude at the time. I loved him way too much to let him go anywhere. They’d waited ten year for a child before I came along and Paddy had been her substitute baby; she worried that he’d be jealous when I was born. Where as in fact he became my constant companion as I grew up, he was never far away from me.

I can clearly recall sitting behind the sofa hugging him, knowing that when he went through the door I’d never see him again. I cut a curl from his coat with a pair of scissors and hid it in a box upstairs, just so I’d always have something to remember him by - see, I was even a sentimental, silly cow back then . No, I’ve not a clue what happened to that curl, time being the greatest of healers and eventually months later another dog came into my life. A mogul that we called Cindy.

She belonged to a couple with a baby that lived in a high-rise flat – I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first time she was let out in our back garden. She jumped a foot up in the air when her feet touched the grass; I think she’d only been on concrete up until then. She used to have what we called a ‘mad fit’. Every so often the pure joy of life and the freedom she now had used to go to her head and she run up and down the garden at full pelt barking and jumping in the air.

And that’s where we’ll leave her story for now; unfortunately she was killed by a car six years later. It had been a windy night and the gate at the top of the garden had blown open. She’d got into a neighbours garden and then onto the road. I certainly don’t feel like recalling that story at the moment; I'm trying to remain positive - anyway I'm out of tissues and it would only make me cry :-)