Swimming with sardines

"Francis is off to Canada again," I say to Vicky.

"Bastard," she says, companiably and without any real resentment.

"They're flying him in to look at sardines again," I say. "Stupid, really, given that the planes are so crowded that they might just as well ship a few sardines over to examine them instead."

"You know what I think?" says Bad Lindy. "It's obviously some sort of deep seated sexual perversion."

"Is there any other sort?" asks Vicky.

"Whose perversion? Francis' or the sardines?" I ask.

"Francis', obviously. And those poor sardines, having him flying over and inspecting them. I expect they've gone broody with the stress and stopped laying, or whever it is the little swine do."

"He loves Canada," I say. "He keeps talking about asking to be posted there."

"Take it from me," says Vicky, "It's the only place I know where every national stereotype is absolutely true."

"How would you know?" asks Bad Lindy, "You've never been there."

"True," says Vicky. "But you'd be surprised at how many conversations I've had with sardines. Admittedly, I was so drunk at the time that I never did work out if they were dead or just being very considered in their responses."

"I shouldn't think emigration is much of a danger," I say. "I've checked on the website and there's still no sign of them prioritising crap music teachers and sardine voyeurs. The day they announce a national shortage of people to play 'London's burning,' as a slightly out of tune five part round I'll be straight off to consult a good divorce lawyer."

"Don't worry about getting a good one," says Bad Lindy, laughing. "Once you start talking about Francis' sardine-watching habits you could hire the winner of the all England single-cell legal brain of the year competition and guarantee a first rate settlement."

"In the meantime," says Vicky, surveying the latest batch of cakes that are lined up on the window sills like parachute jump trainees, "Have a bun. It'll take your mind off sardines. And emigration."