Columnists
Fishwrapped!
I’ve just been fishwrapped. And I’m still smarting from the experience.
It all started innocently enough when I decided to take my wife out for dinner with a couple of friends to celebrate her birthday. Nothing too fancy: hearty pub food right here in Wellington would suffice. So we chose the Midtown brewery.
I was keen to order the fish and chips, as I had heard good reports about it. And when the order came to my place, I was pleased to see the plate lined with a piece of newspaper, following the traditional British fish and chip shop rule of wrapping an order up in newspaper.
At first I couldn’t tell whether it was real newspaper or a designer’s recreation of one, but as I worked my way through the dish, it became apparent that this was indeed real newspaper.
As I finished my plate, more of the newspaper became apparent. I noted first that it was The Times. Quite a bold statement, I thought: using the local paper as fishwrap. At least they were reusing it. But you may recall the Urban Dictionary defines “fishwrap” as “Slang for any printed journalistic medium (newspaper, magazine, etc.) with such low credibility and standards in acceptable journalism that its only useful function is to wrap fresh fish in.” I might use the term to describe the late and unlamented Rupert Murdoch publication the News of the World, but surely not The Times.
As I cleaned off my plate, I became aware that this was not just the The Times that was covered with grease from the fish batter and ketchup from the chips, it was page 8 of the December 12, 2018 edition, and that the oily picture on the page staring out at me with its trademark smirk through the greasy, oily film was my own. I had truly been fishwrapped. I had one of my friends take a picture of it, just to prove it was true.
Was this a put up job? Briefly, I suspected my wife and friends. But their protestations of innocence seemed heartfelt—as did their amusement at my predicament. I then suspected pected my waiter (a moonlighting Times reporter) or the cook (another friend); but they seemed equally unburdened by guilt. Was it arranged by our publisher to signify his displeasure at my output? But why should he have to resort to subterfuge: he could just dress me down or even fire me if he wanted to?
That left two possibilities. The first was that I had a clandestine detractor. This would not be unprecedented. Just as, a few years ago, I had a secret admirer who kept delivering me un-labelled gifts of liquorice allsorts; it was equally possible that someone would want to send me a negative message about my journalistic merits. But if so, they had chosen a peculiar issue to make their point, because the column was about the lack of a pedestrian crossing in Picton—hardly the source of great howls of outrage.
If it was a clandestine detractor, I felt a little sorry for them. My secret admirer had grown impatient with my deductive skills and eventually outed themself to me (how’s that for gender neutral grammar!). Unless I had sprouted some new intelligence genes, all I had to do was sit tight and they would in due course reveal themself to me out of sheer frustration. But my clandestine detractor, if there was one, should have even able to figure out that there was no point in going about their business on the sly. And there was always the option of writing a letter to the editor if they took issue with me.
The second possibility therefore seemed more likely. The fact that my image in my newspaper showed up as my fishwrap could be a complete coincidence— no more far fetched than, say, finding that in a room of 25 strangers, three of them share the same birthday; or running into your neighbour from Wellington while you are promenading down Portage Avenue in Winnipeg. “What are the odds?” you laughingly wonder—until some math geek sits down to try to work it out more precisely.
Going through the fishwrapping shock has had one positive outcome. It has helped me to accept that there is something pleasurable about accepting that coincidence just happens. You needn’t put on yourself the psychological toll of seeking a culprit or a conspiracy or even an explanation. What seems like a dark plot can take on a rosier hue when cast as a coincidence.
Perhaps I’ll order the fish and chips again. Who knows: I may get lucky next time and hit page 6! What karma!
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