Thursday, 7 January 2021

A Crab's Tale

 So there me and my mate, Paul, were scavenging along the bottom of Loch Fyne, as per, when we espied a nice bit of rotten mackerel sitting doing not much. So after a bit of a kerfuffle with some dumped fishing gear we tuck in heartily. We are having a post postprandial nap when, with out a bye your leave, we are heading towards the surface at a rate of knots.

This human then kindly releases us from the fishing gear, measures us up for a new suit and decides Paul mustn't need one and lobs him back, while for some reason he puts rubber bands on my claws and plonks me in a bin with lots of strangers. Needless to say we are all giving each other weird looks and as usual some nutter is waving her claws about claiming its the end of the world and we are all doomed to the great cooking pot in the sky. My old Gran used to go on about that as well until, one day, she just disappeared. The tone of the place dropped when a lobster dropped in beside us, I mean you can't trust those over grown shrimps, can you? They makes my exoskeleton shiver, they does.

Must have been about half a tide later, usually when Paul and me are loitering around Ottier Ferry looking for the girls, that we get another shift into a bigger bin which, at least, has some sea in it. It gets a bit crowded after a while but at least that lobster's gone. Some lads have decided to start an escape committee as they are starting to think the nutter crab is right, for once, so pile one on top of the other. Just when they are about to succeed some one in the bottom layer has to scratch his backside, as per, and down they all fall.

Then a human puts a lid on us and there is a bit of shoogling and banging and we're on the move again, some of the lads get land sick, not I good sign thinks I. Another couple of tides and we stop. Some human opens the top and we are all hoping for some nosh but zip, nada and to be honest we could do with a tidal run as, not to put to fine a point, on it the water is now honking. I mean all those lads and lasses cramped up in a small space, what would you expect.

We can hear human's shouting angrily at each other but as I don't savvy human its is all haddock to me.

Another tide or two and the water in the bin is now truly reeking, crabs are struggling to get their breath, some are saying the cooking pot in the sky would be better than this, others have just given up. We could have had a good snack on those, the rest of us, but no chance with these bleeding bands on our claws.

Eventually the humans dump the dead, the dying and the living in this big pit, I have a quick look round but there is no sea I can sense anywhere near.

I am just wiggling free to make a run for it when wham, a load of rotting Langoustines land on my head and, well, that was me kippered.

The one human phrase that stuck in my mind as I died was "F in Brexit" or something like that, which they were all shouting.

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