Obviously, there was a duck. After all, it would be odd to have a duck pond without one. At first, it – quite naturally (for a duck) - assumed we were there to steal its bread, but of course once we had assured the mallard that its diet of low-quality supermarket white-sliced was not our aim, it cruised off to the other side of the ponds to watch events unfold.
Which they did….
Although, the spontaneity of the event was somewhat – to what remains of my mind, anyway – marred by her insistence on folding her clothes neatly and placing them in a clean dry place, which – when you are adjacent to a duck pond – is not the simple straightforward matter it would otherwise be. My - I thought helpful – suggestion that she hang them on a branch of a nearby tree was rewarded by one of those looks that men tend to learn to recognise at an early age, and it was definitely not one of those looks that would launch a thousand ships, at least, not unless the sailors were fleeing in panic from her and her wrath.
Anyway, soon she was naked and, consequently, I’d completely forgotten why we’d gone there and what I was supposed to do.
She tutted in a way that suggested I’d better not ever suggest such a thing again and strode off – causing the duck to flee in panic – while I stood their watching her, clutching my forgotten equipment in my hand… at least until I realised what a magnificent figure she struck as she strode across the village green and was seemingly now hurrying back towards me - clutching a fallen tree branch - in a manner that suggested those aforementioned sailors would have been right to flee in fear of their lives.
So, after a careful – but rapid – consideration of my options, I did the brave thing and ran for it too.