Two's company

I am sitting at work in a near-empty office on a day when most other (sensible) people have taken holiday and are currently sunning themselves at the lake.  Wow, what a long sentence.  As usual, there are various things I could blog about, but I would like to start with Maurice (remember - Gaia's first boyfriend).  As I had feared, Gaia was up in arms about my choice of pseudonym, and I must admit that it doesn't suit him as well as I first thought.  He is doing less lurking now and the Bavarian sun has tanned his milky complexion, and I must note that he - unlike many boys his age - does like a bright red or green hoodie, rather than the habitual grey or black.  I'd like to stick to M, so I will rename him Maximus.  Surely Gaia will be happy with that. Meanwhile Titus continues to nurse his crush on a certain-girl-in-his-class-who-must-remain-nameless.  I am sworn to secrecy.  When I offered to give things a little nudge in the right direction by asking her round to play, he went bright red (a bit like Maurice's hoodie) and declared that if I did, he would stay in his room and ignore her. Hedda, thank goodness, shows no interest in the opposite sex and is wholeheartedly looking forward to her next (all girls) school, where she will finally be rid of those annoying things called boys. 

Writing about attraction and relationships makes me think of our ducks.  You may know that ducks pair for life - one could call this romantic, but I suspect there are other biological reasons for this.  This means that if one half of the happy couple kicks the bucket, the other is left to roam the world alone.  It so happens that we have such a webfooted widower in our street, and I found it most amusing to observe how he (I called him Derek - I like to give things names, as you may have noticed) tried to elbow in on our ducks' coupledom.  At first I thought they were kindly tolerating him, taking him under their wing in light of his recent bereavement, much like the trios of old people you sometimes see out and about, where you know that a good old friend would once have made it a quartet.  Then I realised that Derek's intentions were not only about companionable food-searching but more about getting his end away with the fair Sophie.  Several times I caught him in the act, Johann standing by quacking in a muted, futile way.  Last week, though, Johann finally lost his patience.  Head down, beak raised, he charged at Derek again and again until the latter gave up and padded away lonesomely to spend the night in solitude (ducks seem to conduct their sexual activities at dusk).  He has not returned, and I swear that Johann has become more assertive and self-confident since this victory.  Not that I am one to anthromorphise, you understand.