Duck surprise

of the nasty kind. The surprise, not the duck, poor bastard.

A nasty surprise it was for Mrs Raheny.
And for Finnzy-Bob.
And most of all for the duck.

Finn was really traumatised yesterday. Poor little thing.

Mrs Raheny did stop the car, and thought that all the semi-wild mallards that live outside the house of the uncouth-man-who-hates-people-in-general-but-likes-ducks had returned to their sleeping patch on the footpath outside his house, rather than their snoozing spot in the middle of the road.

They all had.

But one.

Mrs Raheny's back wheels hit it when she took off.

Shower of feathers and distressing frantic quaking ensued. And the screams of the men-hater-ducks-lover. And Finnzy-Bob screaming with distress in his back seat.

Mrs Raheny had to park the car. And try to put the fatally wounded duck out of its misery. And get the abuse from the man-who-hates-people-even-more-especially-murdering-women-drivers. And try to console Finnzy-Bob who was was crying hysterically by then...

When I got home tears were fresh in people's eyes, young and old.

And I wasn't even allowed to cook the duck...

I tried to reason with Mrs Raheny. But she wouldn't have it in the house, as if it were a vector of plague.
I tried to explain to her that it was a very healthy specimen (until she drove on it that is).
And that the poor duck's pointless death would have been just a little bit less pointless once the two seared breasts had landed in my plate, with just a few caramelised baby onions and a nice red wine jus.

But she would have none it.

What a waste.

Some people really don't give a duck.