Occasionally, I’ll think of a phrase which would make a perfect title for something or other. “Second to ducks” is one of those phrases. We’ll see where this goes.
In a way, I think we’re all second to ducks. Ducks are, in many ways, the ideal bird – perhaps even the ideal animal. They’re not particularly bright, of course, but who am I to judge? They have delightfully soft chins, they’re especially sweet as babies but don’t lose their charm later in life, and though it feels a bit morbid to acknowledge in this context, they’re utterly delicious.
With such fierce competition, how can we compete? As humans, we’re surrounded by so many unrealistic ideals to aspire to: models, billionaires, and even people who can convince themselves to go to bed at a reasonable time. But no ideal is more unrealistic than the duck. No matter how hard I try – how many Skillshare classes I watch, how many times I go to the gym, or how much NyQuil I take – I will never be a duck. When I left for boarding school at 16, my mum told me to spread my wings, but I knew I couldn’t. I didn’t even have wings. Even a baby duck, with its downy plumage of little practical value, has me beat on that front. Their chins are much softer than mine, too.
All this appeal is borne out in the way that people treat ducks. When people walk past the Kinness Burn – the river here in St Andrews – they’ll often feed the ducks on their way past. For people to feed me when they’re passing by I’d have to be a cripple or an invalid. Seems a bit unfair, just because I don’t have a soft chin or wings.
youre quackers