Ducks in a line

Morning, noon, night, anytime, anywhere: there is a lot to be said for a good duck.

A good duck, particularly in the morning, can set you up for the day. A good duck does nobody any harm. Have you heard of anybody being harmed by a duck?. They, like rabbits and sheep, have a God-given nonchalance about them, without the timidity of the former and stupidity of the latter.

I like ducks.

Witness then my distress when hearing earlier this week of the death of a mother duck and her three ducklings killed, run over, squashed flat, buzzard-meat (or its New Zealand equivalent) on busy Rosemount Road in Henderson. Worse still, the tragic augmentation of four orphan ducklings left behind.

But then...

Then was the company, the staff of whom, espying on this busy road the plight of the ducklings, rushed to their aid. Then there was the burly truck driver, from IMF, who desperately brought his rig to a grinding halt to avoid hitting one of the ducklings then left his cab to help the staff round up the duckling brood; the same driver who then took the orphan ducklings home to be raised by hand, as he had done, it was revealed, with other ducks before.

And then there were the 60-odd motorists, New Zealanders, who patiently and uncomplainingly waited in line and in queue on one of the busiest roads in town at the busiest times of the year while all this was done and then and only then went about their business.

I love ducks; I love New Zealanders more.