Peter Bromhead: Something fishy about house hunting

Cartoon / Peter Bromhead

A vortex of domestic insecurity has enveloped me, thanks to the stork heading my way.

I am being forced to go house hunting.

"We've got a perfectly sound dwelling, why move?" I protested to the caregiver. However, I'm reminded that what was once regarded as my very personal "sophisticated bachelor pad", carefully honed for the sole purpose of "entertaining young ladies", has now been totally over-run by unforeseen additions: a wife, child, dog, scooters, train sets and a mountain of Lego.

The thought of even more baby paraphernalia clogging the space is straining my original dream of La Dolce Vita.

When the caregiver sternly added, "you'll also have to give up your office", I knew the writing was on the wall.

Naturally, to purchase real estate, it's financially helpful to have a buyer for one's own property first.

Having potential buyers around last weekend didn't get off to a good start.

After the usual inspection, we adjourned to the lounge for tea.

We were just discussing humdrum matters like rates, when the conversation froze as the potential purchaser's wife noticed a glass bowl tucked under a small table. "Is that a plastic fish ornament filling your goldfish bowl?" she asked curiously.

Unfortunately, I couldn't stop her from taking a closer look and she seemed somewhat shocked to discover the bowl was actually occupied by the remains of a large filleted snapper.

"Why a dead fish?" she asked weakly.

"Well, it's a long story," I mumbled nervously, explaining that I'd been to the market earlier, purchased a snapper and had it filleted. My 5-year-old son, who accompanied me, was upset by the dismembering process and insisted on taking the carcass home.

He believed he could join the head and tail together and reinvigorate the remnants back into life, keeping the transmogrified remains as a pet.

As the first stage of recovery, I'd agreed with his suggestion that we needed to keep the remains under water overnight, in a disused goldfish bowl.

Oddly, what seemed like a perfectly reasonable revivification concept to me, seemed to unduly alarm our potential vendees and they hurriedly took their leave.

Later, after further consideration of our resurrection attempts, my caregiver firmly dictated: "Either that ghastly, smelly fish goes, or I'm going."

I'm thinking hard about her ultimatum, sensing a wee opportunity to get my old bachelor pad back again.