Reaching the sea from The East End is one hell of an assault course as it means negotiating the mirky, brown, River Thames that boasts more prams, supermarket trolleys and old car tyres than fish. It makes the cockney rhyming slang love potion for ocean a tad mysterious and, additionally, I’ve always found the sea somewhat mysterious too.
How long would it take an octopus to dance the hokey-cokey?
I can’t help wondering what jellyfish eat at birthday parties. I also think it’s damn unlucky for a prawn to be caught whilst swimming around a thousand islands. That concludes my attempt at understanding the logic regarding marine life other than the fact that not all sharks are car-dealers or they would have set up in business near to where I spent my earlier years.
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