This week two fishy bodies were found floating on the surface of our aquarium while their souls swam to the great pond in the sky.

Don’t tell anyone but as The Youngest wept buckets, I was secretly pleased to unearth some extra space on the kitchen worktop.

The Youngest was the nominal owner of these fish and, having studiously ignored them for three years, chose this moment to suddenly develop an all-consuming attachment. So to honour their passing, we stood respectful in the rain, reciting poems and singing songs around a funeral pyre under hand-drawn headstone.

The ‘Big Fish, Little Fish, Cardboard Box’ lyrics proved surprisingly appropriate and a homespun composition paid tribute to both the deceased and Dr Seuss: Big wet tears for little fish.

Fish in the ground not in the dish.

One fish, two fish, red fish, blue, The times we had, the time with you.

And all the while, the neighbourhood cat (not in a hat), lurked at a respectful distance, biding his time.

To cheer ourselves up, we headed into town for something to eat, rushing past Yo Sushi and steering clear of tuna and anchovy options at a Pizza Hut wake.

The children were lured in by ‘Kids eat free’ advertising, thinking they’d relocate to this heavenly hot-plate for eternity and make unlimited trips to the Ice Cream Factory, lightening both their mood and the sweet-topping dispensers.

I was twitchy, however, having only just recovered from the trauma of The Middle One, as a toddler, tripping at full pelt on his return journey from a refill and watching his entire dessert deserting the bowl to land inside a random diner’s open handbag.

Apart from these kind of incidents, it’s lovely to dine out in the bright lights of the city every so often, but we’re not short of top quality amenities in the village – there’s a kebab van at the top end, a Wednesday pizza van, and on a Friday night a horn toots right outside as the mobile deep fat fryer parks up.

I wonder if I’ll dare risk fish and chips this week?