Duck Tales
By
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At the age of four I had my whole life planned out. It was quite
simple really - I wanted to be a duck; not a princess nor a fairy, but
a duck. I can't remember why I wanted to be a duck, but the obsession
had certainly taken a firm hold.
At the age of six I threw a tantrum in class until I became the only
duck in the school production of Oliver! While the other infants sang
'Food Glorious Food' I quacked merrily in the background. In playground
games I was the only duck in our re-enactments of Bambi. I begged my
mother to take me swimming every Saturday, but my vain attempts at
paddling through the chlorinated water, trying to mimic a duck, failed
miserably and I had to be content with front crawl.
That didn't put me off, not one bit, but there was one problem; flying.
How, exactly, does one go about this? So, eagerly I studied birds in
the garden, majestic swans at lakes (whilst feeding them morsels of
bread) and screaming seagulls that soared at the seaside. As I watched,
I learned. It was as if someone had lifted the pair of sunglasses away
from my face, and my vision suddenly cleared. I knew how I could fly! A
jump (which, probably, wouldn't do anything for my cherub-like body) or
a run-up then a launch would do the trick.
Our house had a wide hall; the stairs went straight down the centre and
finished perfectly about a metre and a half directly parallel to the
front door. Now all I had to do was run down the stairs and leap three
or four steps from the bottom, and (hopefully) success would be
mine!
It was early in the evening; mum was busy in the kitchen making dinner
so I seized this chance by the throat.
Imagine this; a dwarf-sized seven year old standing atop a staircase,
hair sleeked back in a ponytail, eyes shielded by yellow goggles (the
one I had used for swimming) and two thick, plump pillows strapped to
my arms acting as wings (the reason being they were feather pillows -
not the stuffed variety) - hardly aerodynamic.
I ran down the first half of the stairs, arms flailing madly, quite
slowly; I jumped and didn't get that far. Speed, I thought, faster. So
I ascended the stairs and stood there, every nerve in my body was
tingling with anticipation. I leapt forward and ran faster and faster,
inside my heart was exulting; this was it! I was one step closer to
duckness! But suddenly - I wasn't running, I wasn't flying - I was
falling?
Each stair that I tumbled down, ploughed hard into my back. I fell
neatly in a heap beside the front door; I had broken my arm. It wasn't
the pain that made me cry out, but the shock. So at my inane wailing,
mother dearest ran through to rush to my aid and took me away to
hospital.
They fitted me with a plaster cast, which stunted my daring activities.
When I was bored I doodled ducks on the emulsion-white cast. I guess I
learned to be content that I would not actually master the art of
flying, but still I remained obsessed.
In the summer of the last year of the millennium, a duck waddled into
our garden, looked to its left and right, plonked itself down and
decided this would be its new home. I, of course, adopted the poor
creature; fed it, looked after it, gave it water. I named him Guinness
- I had an affinity with the mysterious substance of alcohol at the
time - but after the endless hazy days of summer passed and turned into
fiery autumn, Guinness disappeared when Game Season began.
Yes, I mourned the loss greatly. I remember all the times he quacked
under my window (like Romeo minus the quacking) to make me feed him at
the un-godly hour of five in the morning. He, for Guinness laid no eggs
thus proclaiming him male, used to wake up the neighbours too, and he
waddled along quacking merrily, which I believed to be laughter at his
red-faced foes, as they rained down abuse from in-between maroon
curtains.
A few weeks into russet, austere October, mother cooked a roast dinner.
I sat at my place expectantly, but no beef was served. The dish was
duck. Yes, I had my suspicions, but it was so delicious with cranberry
sauce!
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