One Monday morning, Mr. Hunter left his coral house and swam to work. As he passed on his way, he noted another six families had left the neighbourhood. Mr. Hunter shook his head sadly as he whistled for his dog; before too long there would be no-one left. Like others before them, they had moved on to seek their fortunes.  Mr. Hunter was a traditionalist: he believed in history and continuity - that was why he still sported fins and gills. His newly-sprouting legs were saved for special occasions, notably Sundays, when he crawled out onto the rocks and basked on the shores of his lagoon.

“Morning Square”, said Mr. Hunter, casting an appraising eye over his faithful hound as he swam into view, a thoroughbred canine stingray. Was it his imagination or were Square’s embryonic legs developing into something more than just futile attempts at amphibiousness?

“Woof woof, said Square, as usual frustrated with the limiting nature of underwater chit-chat. One day he would invent a new language and converse with eloquence and clarity; his silence as significant as his comments. Let others yap incessantly, he would establish the cult of minimalism.

Mr. Hunter stroked the loose scales on his newly-shaved chin. “I thought we might try our luck in the rock pool this morning, Square”, he suggested ‘There might be a few neolithic shrimps on special offer”.

Square raised his whip-like tail and sank a few inches with the movement; Every part of his flat body was honed to aqua-perfection. With a mere flick of a muscle he would be able to turn on a sixpence as soon as they were invented. By his calculations that wouldn’t be for a few million years, by which time he would have established his new language. He would take care not to teach it to everyone, there was enough mundane chattering already.

Mr. Hunter swam off in the direction of the rock pool with Square following morosely behind. For fun he exercised his legs with his new swimming stroke: he had named it the dog paddle because it spelled god elddap backwards and that was how he thought of himself - god ‘eld up - by the slowness of evolution, by Mr. Hunter’s backward ways and most of all by the burden of his ridiculous body. If only he could be streamlined and elegant.  Like millions of others, Square longed to be beautiful and scoured the problem pages for advice on improving his physique, spending months exercising with a Bullworker in order to expand his chest and develop his land muscles.

The rock pool was disappointingly empty, a usual feature of Monday morning. Mr. Hunter’s gloom intensified. “Typical”, sneered Square, whose resourcefulness knew no bounds. Not for him the aimless acceptance of undersea life. He needed light and energy in order to grow and survive.  In that moment Square made his decision. He would no longer follow blindly where Mr. Hunter led: his master didn't have a clue where he was going anyway. Square would strike out on his own and become independent.

He turned his face to the shimmering surface of the lagoon and began swimming upwards. Below him, he could just make out Mr. Hunter’s upturned face. His mouth was opening and shutting like a fish: Square couldn’t hear what he was saying and he didn’t care, his only thought was for freedom and adventure.