One tends to lust after a decent tin of sardines of a morning, or a late afternoon as it were. Considering the invigorating nature of the previous evenings (haw haw haw!!) activities, I deemed nothing less than crucial that I had the little devils. As they could not be located in the kitchen lard, whereupon said fishies were last sighted, well I firstly fixed myself a gill or thereabouts of sherry, and prepared to search the remainder of the house, certain that the little blighters couldn’t have gotten far. In order to fully appreciate the worldview of your average sholette of sardines whom inhabit a can, I deftly made my way onto a pantry shelf. From there I thought thoughts fishy as you can imagine until I found myself swimming as best as one can in the confines of a tin, to the kitchen door. My fish gut then led me to the direction of the stairs and eventually up said said stairs, and toward the bedroom, outside of which and in spite of my newfound fishy senses, I could detect all manner of odours, from the curious to the depraved, but none smell of Portugal’s finest, wriggled into the door and opened with fins and there she was a young vixen of whom I had the previous evening entertained, upright on the bed, gorging on the final sardine and naked but for the spicy tomato sauce and fish oil that adorned her blossoming young body like a wound, “I should have known it would be you, you insatiable minx” I tried to boom authoritatively from my belly on the floor. Nothing came from my gill but a bubble. Bubble and wiggle