On our holiday I really liked feeding time. No, not feeding me, because Mummy said I was a picky eater, but feeding the fish.
We sat on the quay at the Roxy Bar and Daddy had some old olive bread for me (and Baba). There were millions of little fishes. You only needed to thow in a tiny, tiny piece, and, Baba said, they went ballistic, whatever that is.
"Those larger black fish are no match for those tiny grey ones, they're like bloody piranhas. I'm not putting my foot in there!"
But Granny still had to drag him away.