It is not a fish corpse, it is a pink dolphin

It's that time of year again.

When we local inhabitants of Smalltown perform our annual ritual.

We decorate our front gardens with home-made models. Then we all troop round, meeting the neighbours, signing each other's petitions, sharing gossip about the local council, and expressing our wonder at the well-made constructions of Worzel Gummidge, Bill and Ben, and Postman Pat.

Then we have tea and cakes in the community orchard.

It's a local event for local people.

It all went off reasonably well.

Shark, Squirrel and Tiger engaged in the enterprise with their usual enthusiasm. It is such an opportunity to show to our neighbours the contributions of the home educated children who live here! Tiger stuck two bits of cardboard onto my extendable ceiling duster, called it a toucan, and shoved it in the hedge where fortunately no-one could see it.

Squirrel spent several hours minutely painting paper butterflies, then hung them in a tree. I spent a good while hunting. After she pointed them out to me, I photographed them using the camera's helpful double-zoom function.

 And then there was Shark's contribution to the entertainment. She carefully laid it on the doorstep.

I looked at it, and hopefully asked, was the bloodied corpse of a dolphin stabbed by a spear part of her campaign to encourage all the happy passers-by to double-check their tuna tins for the dolphin-friendly logo?

'No', she answered, looking at me as if I was demented. 'It is a pink dolphin.'

Oh. I looked at it again, in a new light!

Trying for all the world not to see a fish corpse lolling against the door, laid out on a blood-splattered ocean.

I failed, but I kept that to myself, and said it was very nice. It is too, if you repeat to yourself that it is not a fish corpse, it is a pink dolphin.