Ralph Oswick: Eric lives to swim another day – in his new fancy home

Ireally thought this column would be an obituary. You remember my famous goldfish, Eric Gill, the spontaneous purchase of whom resulted in much unpredicted angst and expense? More people ask after Eric’s wellbeing than of mine. Why, the chairman of Widcombe Association, no less, even baked a large Eric-shaped cake to bring to our combined birthday party! I was 70 and Eric was two. I suppose a Ralph-shaped cake would have been too much of a culinary challenge. Well, Eric having outgrown his original bowl, I decided to buy him a top of the range all bells and whistles aqua-globe with built in aeration, LED lighting and patent ceramic gravel. It being absolutely huge (goldfish grow exponentially, but note to Eric: I don’t think my sideboard will take anything bigger) it took most of the evening to fill it. I lost count of how many times I traipsed up the steps into my lounge lugging my brimming watering can. Then there was all the anti-algae treatments, the water softening chemicals, the temperature checks and the nitrogen and nitrate test strips. Finally it was ready, fully lit and bubbling, and in went Eric. He loved it. Round and round he went, looking as pleased as punch to be released from his cramped and somewhat limescale encrusted former domicile. Too excited it seems. For after about an hour he turned upsidedown, his beautiful fan tail drooped, his eyes glazed over and to all intents and purposes he died! A frantic search on Google revealed that the symptoms being displayed (i.e. death) were the result of an air or food blockage causing pressure on the swim bladder, the vital organ that enables the fish to stay upright. I grabbed him and lifted him out of the water, and prizing his mouth open with a pair of tweezers I peered into his inner cavities. Nothing untoward could be seen. I baulked at the thought of giving him the kiss of life (and yes, everyone has asked about that) so I put him back in. Nary the faintest quiver of gills could be detected as he floated there on his back. I gave him a couple of desultory pokes. Nothing. Eric R.I.P. It now being 2am I decided to go to bed, where I lay awake composing a fishy obituary and planning Eric’s replacement. Of course I was devastated by my sad loss, but I had no intention of allowing this expensive piece of aquatic kit go to waste. Imagine my amazement on getting up next morning to find my fishy friend bright eyed and bushy tailed pootling around his new home as if nothing had happened. Little does he realise how close he got to burial at sea. Or at least being pitched off my balcony in the small hours into the river Avon. Only my qualms at possible ecological repercussions and the lack of a small Union Jack had held me back.

Ralph Oswick was artistic director of Natural Theatre for 45 years and is now an active patron of Bath Comedy Festival