My old woman decided to be "creative", a move that could only end in tears. My tears. She decided to cook up a treat for me. For goodness sake, old woman, buy packets of prawns or Dreamies or chuck some cheese in my direction and save yourself the trouble.
She found a recipe for fish pate and proceeded to butcher a perfectly good whole fish. Why on earth she couldn't have used ready prepared fillets, like any normal person would do, I have no idea.
You have never seen such carnage in your life. Bones and entrails all over the kitchen. Then she boiled it. I hadn't smelled anything so vile since I found a three-month old piece of pork I'd put in the garden shed and forgotten about.
My cue to skedaddle and hide under the bed in the guest bedroom. By the time I emerged, most of the fish "treat" had disappeared, leaving only a malodorous miasma lingering in the air.
"Here, have a few Dreamies, Toffee. The fish treat wasn't a huge success," she said.
Result!
