Yesterday, I looked after a duckling. It cheeped when I typed, its little bill poking out from a cardigan armpit wool-hole.

The duckling is an incubator chick and belongs to Chris down the track. Chris was away for the day so I looked in on the duckling, cheeping in a box on the kitchen floor. It paddled straight up my sleeve to my armpit, so I brought it back with me to the caravan.

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I know nothing about ducklings. This one has strong legs, stubby wings, and fuzz. I took it to a puddle where it dabbled a bit and didn’t like mud. It ate from a pie dish, and impressively squirted green guano on the hearth whilst reversing out of my hat.

It had a sunny time waddling up and down the windowsill, looking out at the robins and wrens and batting his little bill on the glass. It paddled over the keyboard and nibbled at the pages of Welsh history, but seemed happiest of all in my armpit.

I wasn’t sure at the time, how much of a bond we were developing and I didn’t get much work done, but today I kind of miss him.