Many years ago when I lived at home my mum was asked to look after a neighbours fish whilst they were on their hols. In one tank was a small freshwater lobster, the pride and joy of my mum's friend's hubby which he'd had for years and loved dearly. Off they went and when it came to the first feeding I went with mum to lend and hand and have a pike at this famous lobster. We'd been given full feeding instructions and spent a while dangling bits of prawn in front of said lobster with long tweezers but . . . nothing. Eventually we decided to wake it up and gave it a prod with the tweezers - nothing. Further tweezer probing ensued and disaster! Our worst fears were realised - the lobster was dead, ceased to be and we still had two weeks left to go before they came home.

Needless to say, on their return I left it mum to go and break the news that his beloved lobster had keffed it within hours of them going away. Apparently, the chap was quite sad (although my suggestion the news might have been easier to swallow if we'd boiled the lobster, shelled it and stuck it in a buttie made of nice, crusty bread with a squirt of lemon and some marie-rose sauce was poo-pooed immediately).