The horror, the horror

Clive has just unearthed a traumatic memory. Brace yourselves, it involves bestiality, sadism, rape, and gay bestial rape.

My uncle once kept a pair of ducks. As ducklings, they were cute. As ducks, they were... scary. The one (ahem) liked the other one; the other one liked toes. A Lot. Woe betide the barefoot passerby - toes would be viciously attacked. By which I mean, bit. Really very damn painfully, and utterly relentlessly.

It was my misfortune, at the time, to be living in the granny flat - a very nice little en-suite pad, but access to and from the main house came via the kitchen door, and (this is the misfortune bit) about two metres of Danger Zone. The kitchen door was on one of those springs to prevent it slamming shut, as a result of which it was well nigh impossible to close it with any kind of speed. And the ducks were equipped with razorsharp hearing* and the instant - the very instant - they heard either of these doors open, they would hurtle in sex-starved abandon round the corner of the house, seeking their prey. Well, Duck #2 was seeking his prey; Duck #1 was just following his own true love, Duck #2. Toes would then be mercilessly attacked.

Now, it took me some time to cotton on that this was a Sex Thing. I just thought he maybe was convinced that toes were like really fat, juicy, extra-salty worms. Till one day I decided, in my frustration, to just stand there and let the bugger prove to himself that they weren't.

It kinda worked. He stopped eventually. My toes were a bit sticky, though. And it was more evident than ever that Duck #1 was the one who most deserved the epithet "bugger".

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* This sounds like a nastily mixed metaphor, but just go with it.