Every second Tuesday we’d have fish fingers. With chips and peas, in front of the TV. We’d style the heads of the chips with a ketchup bob, or an HP-fro. And we’d stand them up and they’d watch with us. Sometimes they would chat and bicker with each other, or give chippy hugs, smooshing together their saucey manes, while we shushed them still, so we could hear what Karl and Susan were up to on Neighbours. And they’d shush for a bit. Right up until their vicious, delicious, unavoidable end.