He was a bigger than average fish, some kind of striped tropical creature cooped up in an aquarium in the Spanish city of San Sebastian.
A pretty thing that caught the eye.
And as I roamed the dark halls he followed. I’d stop. He’d stop. I’d stare. He’d…well sure, fish don’t blink. But you get the picture.
I’m not one for epiphanies, generally, but as I looked at that damn fish I said aloud, “I will never eat one of you bastards ever again!”
It wasn’t a great leap.
For the previous 10 years I hadn’t touched red or white meat, a result of a childhood excursion to a Dorsogna meat processing plant in Palmyra and, later, a fortuitous meeting with Hare Krishna philosophies in Byron Bay.
The Hares lost me at “no illicit sex” but got me with their vivid imagery of reincarnation. Who wants to wind up as a cow in a butchery?
My fish epiphany was in 1999 and, until a year ago, my promise stayed good.
But then I drifted into the meat-eating game via some opportunistic swipes into unfinished tins of tuna searching for those delicious salty hunks of meat and by cleaning up my sons’ unfinished spag bol.
Click on the link below to finish reading this humour-filled article. Perhaps you can relate to Derek’s journey too.