My physiotherapist has developed an idée fixe over the years that whenever I think about any goldfish, it dies.
I think that she is making a rather drastic confusion between cause and effect.
I dearly wish I had that mental power – there would no flies on me anymore.
I wouldn’t restrict my zapping powers to mere goldfish;
I would have other fish to fry.
I would extend it other creatures;
I would attend a Harry Potter-style academy and work my way up the food chain.
I would achieve a BA (Black Arts)
then an MBA (Master of the Black Arts)
and finally a PhD (What’s it All About, Alfie?)
I would then change my identity and appearance but I wouldn’t go for the George Clooney/Brad Pitt look, rather I’d choose that guy in Patrick Susskind’s novel Perfume (must reading, by the way) you know, the pervy little alchemist who could become invisible at will.
(Oh, and while you’re at it, lop off a couple of decades from my age, will ya?)
Then I would sally forth and hire myself out to all the Presidents, Prime Ministers, Chancellors, Dictators, Czars, Sheiks, Kings, Absolute Monarchs, Autocrats, Nutters and Sociopaths with cash to spare.
I would become all the rich and powerful megalomaniacs of the world’s worst enemies’ nightmare. I would become a millionaire, a billionaire, a trillionaire.
I would become The Lord of Darkness.
I would be taken up to a high place and shown all the leafy mansions, lobster dinners, Aston-Martins, Rolex waches, private yachts, trophy wives, (trophy mistresses), Armani suits, i-pads, i-phones, i-gots, i-buy-therefore i-am hand-me-down religions in the world and ask Him:
– OK, now what’s the deal?
But all this is predicated on the hypothesis that I am the man who kills goldfish with his thoughts.
So you can stand down and relax, goldfish.