The landmark decision to allow a dead angler to be turned into fish food has, I fear, opened a can of worms.
The fisherman's ashes were mixed with groundbait and flung into his favourite fishing spot, according to a national newspaper.
His family may argue it's an act of rod, but a terrible precedent has been set.
Pet lovers the length and breadth of the land may now want their final resting place to be INSIDE their beloved mutt or moggie. A kind of kitty catacomb.
Should I meet my maker before our demented chav cat Mifsud (soon to be renamed Clinton), I've left instructions for my ashes to be mixed with her favourite food.
So be it. I disagreed with the savage beast in life, it'd be fitting if I disagreed with her in death.
"I'm not having that cat contaminated by you," huffed the wife, "she'll be drunk for a week. Anyway, I'm certainly not going to mix your ashes in her bowl."
"What's the point of it, anyway?" she demanded.
Quite simple. The cat 'relieves' herself in him-over-the-road's rose garden. I've been getting under his skin for years: getting on it while he tends his prize blooms would be the final, delicious irony.
If the plight of our dwindling bumble bee population wasn't enough to push me towards mental meltdown, I've just been informed, via email, the British plum is under threat.
This is news to act upon, unlike the previous computer missive from a bright, young PR gal called Gemmima which gushed 'something exciting has happened to milk'. It hadn't: it had neither turned black or started coming out of cows' noses. It just tasted of kiwi fruit.
