The front garden was a venue for duck fighting last night.
I've no idea exactly what the quarrel was, but there were feathers everywhere. There still are today, in fact.
Naturally, upon hearing the racket last night, I immediately rushed outside to offer my intervention. In the form of stale bread (to be fair, it would have been fresh bread, had I had access to any).
Unfortunately for me, however, I was considerate enough to not throw dry stale bread for the ducks, so I ended up with something akin to wallpaper paste all over my fingers.
I'm reminded of some kind of World Eating Contest that I once had the misfortune to witness, in which a tiny slip of a Japanese bloke ate a frightening number of hot dogs (among many other, infinitely more disgusting, things). His technique with the bread part involved dunking them in his glass of water before shoving the soggy mass down his gullet.
Knowing what I know now, I'm amazed that he did that and lived.
And I'm also hoping that I haven't inadvertently made three ducks horribly ill.
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