My supervisor probably won’t believe me when I tell her this is why I did no work on Friday.
Dan and I were on our way home from M&S, looking forward to an afternoon of world-saving research (him) and making an elderflower gin posset and some cucumber sandwiches to have with the first night of the Proms (me). (One of us has got our priorities sorted and I do rather think it’s not him.) Just outside Worcester College (the one with the lake) we walked into a female duck and two ducklings on the road. They were bustling around quite anxiously and I reasoned that they’d accidentally got locked out of college. We stood for a moment, looking hopelessly through the gate into college that I, as a non-Worcester student, couldn’t open. And so I rang the porter who, when I explained there were two ducklings and a duck trying to get into college and could they please open the gate remotely for them, said, and I kid you not, “sorry, but if anyone wants to come into college they’ll have to come up to the Lodge and ask permission.” I blinked, silently, for a solid ten seconds, really not sure what was being asked of me, before I elaborated, “It’s a duck.” Assured that someone was on the way to deal with the situation but absolutely certain I’d been fobbed off, I collared a student on the other side of the gate and breathlessly explained the predicament. I used my enormous sunhat to shepherd the three little wanderers into college and shut the gate behind them, certain that they would find the lake in their own time, and happy that they were at least safely away from the traffic. Congratulating myself on a good turn, and profusely thanking the student who held the door open while I flapped frantically after these ducks, I made for home. Never normally one to be kept from animals or general helpfulness, Dan had already dashed off ahead for an urgent work call with a journalist, and therefore missed the crescendo of the anecdote. Because — Peep-peep-peep-peep-peep. Oh God. More ducklings, I realised, looking around wildly, having a quick glance under a parked car. Oh, worse than that. It was coming from a grate. Yes, sure enough, the Worcester student whose day I had derailed spotted three tiny ducklings swimming around beneath a metal grate, some fifty centimetres below street level. We were standing staring at these ducklings, horror-struck by this tragedy playing out in front of us, when two locals joined us. We mused that if we could just lift the grate up — but it looked very sturdy and a few experimental pokes and tugs revealed that it wasn’t budging without some serious encouragement. “Oh, not to worry,” said one of the locals, “I’ve got a crowbar.” Who’d have thought? Off he went, and in the meantime college porters and several more concerned onlookers had gathered, with three separate people on hold to, respectively, the RSPB, the RSPCA, and the council, about to apologise in advance for the untold damage we might be about to do to their drain. And so, the crowbar gentleman returns with all the tools for the job — he has very thoughtfully brought a ladle to fish the ducklings out, and a washing up bowl for them to sit in — and eventually the massive workforce that has gathered by now manages to lift the grate. The ducklings were none too grateful for our efforts and resisted every hopeful scoop of the ladle, ducking under the water and hiding in corners. As the person with the closest house, I helpfully dispatched myself in search of a better tool for the job. And so, gentle reader, I ran — not my thing in the best / coolest of times — to our house, barrelled through the door only able to gasp out “DUCK IN A DRAIN” and after a frantic scrabble in the dishwasher, I returned to the scene with a colander, a sieve, and a spätzle strainer. The ducklings have inconsiderately decided to play along in my very brief absence, meaning that not only have I missed the grand rescue, but I’m also needlessly sweating and foolishly clutching a now-superfluous set of utensils. No good deed, etc etc. I loitered for a quick chat, still holding my sieve, and established that all ducklings were safe and well and reunited with their mum, none the worse for their experience. Unlike their rescuers, as I returned home a panting mess, buoyed by the success but nonetheless faintly traumatised, accompanied by our neighbours who were looking rather woefully at the sorry state of their washing up bowl and ladle. Still, all’s well that ends well. Going to put my feet up, revel in feeling marvellously James Herriot-ish, and wait for Worcester to call me, covered in gratitude, and announce that they’re naming a building after me.
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The official website of Yorkshire-made, Oxford-based writer Isabel Parkinson. Want fewer words and more pics? Follow me on Instagram!
(Header Photo: Radcliffe Camera, Oxford - Isabel Parkinson 2016)
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