A fishy tale

It's a sunny evening, down at the Bay. There are boats pootling around the calm waters and fishing tourists are out in force with rods and lines on the piers.

Out at sea, the mackerel aren't biting. And the fish and chip kiosks have run out of fish (oh, I wish they'd tell you that before you start queuing).

The next day, the slipway is closed. It's too rough to launch. And the white horses gallop across the water.

The dive boat comes back and a female passenger says: 'Never again.'

Today, the fresh fish supplier drives up and down the kiosks, to see if they want more cod. The kiosk owners are biting. They don't want another evening where they run out of fish. (Oh, I wish they'd tell you that before you start queuing).

A gull dive-bombs the harbour as the sprats do a pepper-pot dance just beneath the surface. It pulls out a mackerel and is jumped by five other gangster gulls wearing holsters and knuckle dusters. It gulps down the mackerel all in one go and then struggles to take off before being pounced on by the others.

In the fish shop, a woman comes in looking for lobster. In best Hyacinth Bucket voice, she sniffs and says: 'They are rather small.'

I wait my turn for my shell-on prawns, two crevettes and four scallops for a homemade seafood pasta I will share with Mr Grigg before watching Mo Farah's Olympic double. I know the customer but she hasn't seen me yet. She gets within two feet, looks up and says: 'Oh, it's you.'

Bubbles Champagne-Charlie, my neighbour. Lobsters for tea tonight.

Because the fish shop has run out of fish.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x