Walking to the studio yesterday I came across these ducklings and their mother. Mr. X who breeds them is not my favourite person – not that I know him or have ever seen him. He has a little floating duck house moored in the middle of the canal and, presumably to supplement his income – or because he’s a ferocious meat eater, he breeds ducks and geese. And they’re so, soooo cute and fluffy and cuddly.
Last year, while we were recording the album, Mick and I would feed them. We’d call out ‘ducks, ducks, ducks, ducks, DUCKS!’ and they’d come swimming up for all they were worth, quacking away for their snacks. Eventually Mark, who’d come out to see what we were up to, cleared his throat and said ‘you know they belong to Mr. X and they’re for the pot.’
The fact of the matter is that I’m a sucker for cute wee beasties: be they cats, ducks, lambs or whatever. It breaks my heart thinking of eating them and yet I’m not a vegetarian. Why? Obviously the flaw is mine and not Mr. X’s. After all, you can’t get attached to soya protein, can you?