It's been a good week for ...

fish

Police have scaled down their investigations into the disappearance of 16 fish worth £400. The creatures have been found safe and well ... at the bottom of their pond.

The owners, from Kirkpatrick-Fleming in Dumfriesshire, thought there was something fishy going on when they couldn't see their goldfish and koi carp on the surface of the water, so called the police.

Happily, their pondlife was just lurking in the murky depths.

Anyone who has experienced the vagaries of fish-keeping will sympathise. We kept a tank for several years, during which our son experienced the gamut of attitudes to pet death. The first bereavement sticks in my memory. I can't say I was particularly distraught when Bulgey went to the tank in the sky. He was, well, bulgey; a little black monstrosity with bug eyes and wicked-looking whiskers. (On reflection, actually this was Bulgey II: Bulgey I having been hastily replaced by a body double after the water pump was mistakenly switched off during some high-velocity hoovering.)

Sadly, Bulgey II's death happened outwith school hours and the game was a bogey after our son found him afloat and motionless. Once the tears were over, Bulgey I/II was ceremoniously wrapped in toilet paper and wedged into a small box. A solemn procession ensued as we made our way to the nearest burn and launched Bulgey into the swirling depths. He had always wanted a burial at sea.

The bridge is still known as Bulgey Bridge.

It's been a bad week for ... bottoms

Literary passions have been running high, and it's not because we're getting yet more Shades Of Grey. It's perhaps the opposite. On the contrary, it's an act of wanton prudishness that has caused the stooshie.

At the centre of the storm is Jilly Cooper's bottom. To be more precise, Jilly's filly's rump is the butt of criticism. To celebrate the 30th anniversary of her novel Riders, the original "bonkbuster", the publishers have given the book's jacket a makeover. The original features a curvaceous bahookie clad in spray-on white jodhpurs, with a tanned male hand laid suggestively on one cheek.

Fast-forward 30 years and our hero's grasp has retreated hipwards, the heroine's erogenous zone forsaken. Authors such as Louise Mensch have condemned the publishers for "prudishness that [Riders's dastardly hero] Rupert Campbell-Black would disdain". Alas, it seems the PC police have overlooked the point of such novels.