‘About there?’ said the guy.
‘Yes,’ I said.
We were at a fish counter in a supermarket in Newhaven. He had a slab of mahi-mahi, a fish similar to tuna, but with lighter flesh, a more delicate flavour. I cook it slowly in olive oil and eat it with green salad.
One thing: the guy had picked up the fish with his bare hands, and he was holding the fish down with his fingertips. Normally I don’t mind from a hygiene point of view. But he had those raw-looking fingertips you sometimes see. So maybe I did mind.
He brought the knife down and began slicing. Then he yelled in pain, put the knife down and stepped backwards, holding the fingers of one hand in the other. He tore off a sheet of kitchen paper and wrapped his fingers in the paper.
‘I did that earlier,’ he said.
We waited a while. The cut was small. The bleeding stopped. The guy threw the paper away. He picked up the knife again. He cut my fillet, weighed it, bagged it, and stuck on the price tag.
I didn’t want to get him sacked. He was a young guy. But on the way to the checkout, I had a strong sense of not wanting to eat the fish.
At the checkout, I said, ‘I’ve decided not to have this fish. The guy serving it cut his hand.’
The woman pressed a button. A man appeared. They conferred. The last thing I saw was the man walking back towards the fish counter, maybe to sack the fish guy.
Fifty-fifty, I thought.