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Rarely will a colonoscopy be more heralded, advertised, discussed, trumpeted, feared, debated or planned down to the most minute details.

Carlos still has 7 days to psyche himself up.

He asked me to keep this to myself. But I have overheard him discussing it at length with the receptionist. And B from Accounts. And S from Sales. And half of the mesmerised engineering department. And the cleaning lady from the 3rd floor. And his sister on Skype. And more importantly her GP husband on the phone.

I thought I’d discreetly add a reminder on our corporate wall calendar. The one used for the only thing that truly matters in the Mistake Factory: the holidays.

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Shell shocked


He stood there for at least two minutes.
Couldn’t believe it.
So it was true. It wasn’t just some myth, some joke at his expense concocted by the mates at work. The Frogs do eat snails.
He just couldn’t believe it.
But to have the cheek to fill a section of the deep freezer in his local Lidl with the frozen slimy bastards, now, that was taking it a step too far.

I sort of woke him from his horrified reverie with a rather Gallic-sounding “exciouze mee”, and grabbed two trays of the delightful gastropods in garlic and parsley butter.

Finn ate his first escargots today. He wasn’t just a little bit chuffed. He can’t wait to tell his mates on Monday morning. 


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No respite from the paparazzi


– Jayzis, Brenda, I can’t believe it. Here’s another of them snappers trying to take my photo.
– Snappers? Aren’t we out of them Helen? It’s not often the local boats catch a red snapper. Only the ones with a really banjaxed GPS…
– No Brenda, not a fish. A bloke. With a camera. A big yoke with loads of buttons. And a camera around his neck.
– Slap him with a mackerel Helen!
– No way, I’m not wasting any fresh fish on that gobshite. I’ll let him take a few snaps and send him on his merry way. We need a “no photography” sign beside the “no fishing” sign…

I buy fresh fish from Helen every Thursday.
Up until yesterday, I had no idea that her name was Helen.
To me, she was the fresh-fish-lady-from-the-Ice-Box.
Today I walked in and said “Hi Helen, two pounds of whiting please”.
She did flinch. A bit. We talked about whiting, as we do every Thursday, and then I asked her if she did not wonder how I knew her name. She did. A bit.
She was quite sure that she had not told me her name. Quite sure, but not sure sure.
So I told her with a smile that I got her name from the Internet the day before.
And proceeded to show her Skyroad’s photo on my phone.
And we had a laugh.
And we talked whiting for another while. There is surprisingly loads to talk about on the topic of whiting. We still haven’t quite exhausted the subject.
Which is good. Because I like going to the Ice Box. Every week.
Helen let’s me poke the mackerel in the eye balls, and sniff the plaice’s gills for freshness and caress the whiting fillets to check their texture.
They are always invariably fresh. Like fresh fish should be.

Eat your heart out Tesco, and your 13 middle men between the trawler and my frying pan.