The Joys of Cleaning Fish

My boyfriend showed up with a packet of barracuda this morning and left me with the bloody task of gutting them. I think he had heard that Seychellois men bring fish to their womenfolk and, ever keen to impress, took note of my last night's waxing lyrical about the tastiness of bekin. Very sweet of him. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to know of the time-honoured Seychellois tradition that it's guys who clean fish here.

There is a reason for this. Gutting fish is a blood and gore thing. Slicing open a fish belly with a sharp knife and pulling out the bloody blackened guts with your bare hands is best left to the hunters, not the gatherers. Whilst I am a liberated and free woman who can do anything I set my mind to, I don't really want to clean fish. Let the men indulge in their atavistic urges to wallow in the bloody insides of fresh kill. I am perfectly willing to look on in admiration and make the appropriate murmurs of appreciation.

No chance of that today. I'm off to fill my sink with guts and scales ...