5,001

Having semi sensibly decided not to indulge once more in the apparent art of photography for a day and a bit, I was almost religiously drawn towards the fishing museum again. Though it was closing at the precise moment I arrived, I was advised they had had a successful year with 5,OOO visitors. If only I’d arrived slightly earlier I could have been recorded as No 5,001 that had been there twice, what an achievement in the log book that could have been for all concerned and was clearly of no concern to anyone at all but myself. Instead of indulging in a perhaps understandable tantrum, I congratulated them upon their academic duty to the community and quite pathetically sulked around the corner with my note book and multi coloured pen. As I calmly repaired my hopeless ego by creating another absolute masterpiece of contemporary art for the wonderment of future generations of historians, my nostrils were indeed aroused by the aroma of the seemingly last of the organic summery fish and chips, sensually wafting in an almost plasmatic poetic infusion through my most particular of hemispheres. Realising there was no other dignified choice beyond semi permeating myself off into the sunset with little more than half a membrane, I somehow remembered the wisdom of my apparent pet amoeba. He she or it had explained that, due to natural counter culture, I too was also once a pet of sorts and, through such insight, we had voluntarily cancelled all notions of involuntary employment. From my new found coordinates, close to the stars and far away from concepts of captivity, I imagined, with huge amounts of miniscule displaced modesty, that Opportunity, Lady Patricia, Rowena and Sam Allen would be roughing it through the winter waves. I am now softly humming a prayer for future pickled herrings and thinking about custard.