I like to pretend I'm very busy all day, with numerous important tasks to fulfil, and barely a moment to myself. So you have to wonder how I can possibly justify sitting here for the last 20 minutes reading a memorial to dead ducks.
In my defence though, I thought it was a piece of comedy, and it was only at the point where I was about to e-mail the author to congratulate them on a fine piece of humorous writing, that I realised it's completely serious.
So I'd like to apologise, and offer my heartfelt comiserations to the owners of Chompy and Quackers. I feel your loss. Although, as Brittany LeBlanc, who claims to be the mother of her duck (nothing weird there then), says: "Many people tell me, 'It's just
a duck, get over it.'" Harsh words indeed. You wouldn't catch me saying something like that.
Perhaps the most heartbreaking tale concerns 'Lucky'. Lucky by name, lucky by nature. Or perhaps not. "One morning my mother, brother and myself were busy in the kitchen and not paying close attention to where Lucky was. Accidentally my brother stepped on him and his little neck snapped." Don't laugh, this is tragic. I know someone who once trod on a gerbil. You don't get over something like that.
Still, it could be worse. He could've been eaten by a raccoon. Trust me, it happens.
While I'm here, may I just say hello to the anonymous person on the A23 who contacted me via my website this morning.
Now stop reading this blog, and get back to those children.