Mallard

I was having a stroll this evening, shortly before dusk, by the side of the mere; watching the waterfowl paddling to and fro; the way they do. It was not long before the park shut, so there were few souls to be seen. I never used to be all that fond of the park, always associating visits with Bank Holidays, when it would be unpleasantly crowded and cost a fortune to keep the children entertained. But just before closing time, when the visitors have left for their tea, or, in some cases, dinner, the place becomes quiet and practically desolate, with deer staring at you as an unwelcome intruder who had better not get too close. The lapping waters of the mere take on an Arthurian quality, as if at any moment you might see an arm rise from the depths, clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, and wave a sword at you.

There is something rejuvenating about going for a stroll beside a large body of water in the early evening. It works wonders for dispelling the stresses and strains of the day. Ducks in particular are very effective in cheering you up. I don't know if it's their placid character (apart from when they're chasing other ducks): the way they glide effortlessly across the waves without a feather out of place. Or their beaks: there is something about their beaks; on other birds, beaks just look like – beaks; but on ducks, they are somehow so much more. But don't ask me what, exactly. Or the way they go around in pairs, like an old married couple, content in each other's company. Who knows. I have a couple of wooden ducks in my living room, just to remind me.