"Whoopee!" Michael said as his barbecued fish arrived. "Look at that! Amazing." A meal was never just a meal; with Michael Foot it was a celebration. Nearly every mouthful got its own cry of satisfaction. I remembered, though, that on the boat he had been excited about the fishing and then sobered by seeing the fish pulled on board. He was going to eat it, but for that moment he did not like staring death in the face. Now, even with the whole fish--head and all on his plate, he devoured his delicacy without a qualm. While we talked, Michael put his head down and dug in. All he managed to utter, again and again, was "now, now, delicious." Later I questioned him, "You're not really against fishing, are you Michael?" "Well, not really, but every now and again I'm shaken." Even after what I told you about Benjamin Franklin?" "Yes," he insisted. I had told Michael the story from Franklin's autobiography. Although he was a vegetarian, Franklin had been lured by the wonderful smell of sailors cooking fish aboard ship and had forsaken his principles, pointing out that he had watched the fish opened up and saw inside them smaller fish. He reasoned that if the bigger fish could eat the smaller fish, he could eat the bigger fish. "Good excuse that is," Michael conceded, but he had read Brigid Brophy's brief in favour of vegetarianism and been persuaded (mostly). "My father was a seaman," I said to Michael gravely, "and it would be hard to convince me."