The insouciance of ducks ...

I have never had much fondness for ducks - whenever I loiter upon Wareham Quay, scowling over an article about Iain Duncan Smith, insolent ducks assail me - they demand choice portions of pastries, or crumbs of artisan bread -

I know that Sophie and Paul are duck friendly - when they lived on the houseboat at Nine Elms Pier, they had dreams, I think, of bringing up a hatchling - when they went to Detroit, to explore the urban prairies, they stayed at first in an urban duck farm -

But as for me - I regarded ducks with suspicion - there was something about their insistence upon largesse which troubled me -

All that changed, early one morning, outside the Duomo - I was on a mission to fill our plastic jerry can with water - I stepped out, into the calm glade - a bold duck was waiting for me -

He nimbly sidestepped me, peered into the Duomo, looked up at me - he had such an insouciant air, such chutzpah - that I was overcome with admiration -

I imagined such a duck, swaggering into a salon, if ducks had salons - perhaps they did - perhaps there was an anatine Madame de Stael nearby - this duck would command respect with his courtly presence -

I put my jerry can down, and offered my doceur - perhaps a triangle of toast would suffice -