I was driving to work along the coast road this morning when I nearly ran over a mother (possibly father (or auntie or uncle or non-binary)) duck walking along the road with eight baby ducks trailing behind. That’s right. Not across the road — along the road. I had to stop, no one else seemed to be doing anything, and looked in the boot for something to put them in. Found the Bunnings basket I borrowed a few years ago, must return it some time, emptied the contents into my boot, so that’s where those sunglasses went, and then raced around catching ducks and piling them into my basket. The big one was the trickiest, and of course they kept spilling out as quickly as I put them in, kept running under the car, diluting and dispersing, me down on my hands and knees, must wear more practical clothing for work, cars tooting, blokes whistling, no one helping, me as busy as the boy who shot his father. Somehow, I finally got them all into the basket with a beach towel over them and put them on the front seat of my car. Lots of loud quacking and cheeping going on.
I thought I’d drive to a nearby park and let them go. But, as I was driving, they started to escape from the basket, walking around inside the car, on the seats, under my feet, on my lap, what a nightmare, and big duck wasn’t looking too pleased with me. I finally pulled into the car park at a local park and opened the doors. Of course, by now they had settled in and wouldn’t come out.
When I finally got to work Stuart asked me how come I was so late, and had I ridden in again today. I thought for a second, then thought what’s the use, and told him my alarm hadn’t gone off. At least that was believable.