We visited Bourton in the Water, in the heart of the Cotswolds yesterday. I had very vague memories of it when I went as a Brownie – the only thing I could remember was the little bridges that crossed the stream. They were still there, along with the traditional Cotswold houses – it hadn’t changed that much. We paid a visit to Birdland – and watched the penguin feeding time.

Just for Chris - in case he needs more research material on how to be a Penguin!

There were some amazing sculptures of birds and insects made from Motor parts and scrap metal. Just a nice relaxing day all in all.

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We had about twenty Trick or Treater’s last night – although one of them didn’t count. Josh’s little sister turned up twice - the first time with Matthew and then again an hour later with Josh. I can’t help wondering how many other people she visited twice. All six year old wicked witches look the same, it’s the adult with them you notice.

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There was a hell of a ruckus going on in the duck pen this morning. Baby had flown over the fence and was in with Ozzy and George – the problem being you can’t tell the two drakes apart. Ozzy is a tart – she’s a ladies man – so no way was she letting on which duck was meant to be with her, she'd keep the two, thank you very much. Unfortunately George is the spit of his dad, and as neither duck would quack, I couldn’t tell them apart. In the end I let all three out into the garden and waited the few seconds that was needed for George to make a bee line for the back door. He’s just never accepted that he isn’t a dog and still thinks it’s OK to go inside and sit by the fire. I shoved Baby back in with Daisy – who bent his ear about making advances at other ducks – quacking and bobbing her head at him for all she was worth. Baby was the first duck we breed ourselves – I didn’t know then that the first egg to hatch is usually male – so the poor thing got called Baby Duck until I could tell its sex. The name stuck and he now fights everything in sight – he’s a duck with an inferiority complex.

George was incubated. Matt took several eggs to school as a science project – only one hatched. The teacher called him out of lessons to witness the birth and he watched the tiny duckling fight its way free of its shell. I then got a phone call to say I could collect child and duckling and take them home. That was a bit of a shock – I thought they’d keep it for a few days, until it was bigger. I wasn’t ready for it – parenthood was thrust upon me. George (named after George Clooney) refused to sit in the box on the way home and demanded to be cuddled under Matthew's chin – with hind sight I should have spotted the signs then – but I didn’t. I naively thought I would be able to put him in with Daisy, who was really broody at the time.

Daisy loved him on sight – unfortunately George was absolutely horrified that we were trying to put him in with her – Couldn’t we tell a human when we saw one. I endeavoured to convince him otherwise for over twenty minutes, until I gave in and walked back to the house with this tiny little duckling following me – Daisy calling him back for all she was worth. So into the house he went – ‘this was more like it,’ he said. ‘now if you could just pick me up and put me under your chin, I’ll have a little sleep.’ Himself flatly refused to let me take him upstairs with us at bedtime, so I had to make him a bed in a box and leave him downstairs. The weeks that followed found me coming home every lunch time so that I could fill a washing-up bowl with water for him to have a swim – he used to shoot under the water and swim around and around in circles. When he wasn’t asleep on me, he sit on our old Labradors back – the silly dog let him. He went all over the place with me – I even took him to Tracy’s Mum & Dads Bar-b-cue, good job he was too small to eat. So he grew up with the dogs – he used to follow them around, and they just accepted him.

As he got bigger, Himself insisted that George should go in a pen outside – I wouldn’t let him – he'd be lonely on his own. Where the hell was I going to find another duckling his age, who was hand reared and also thought it was a dog. It’s funny how life has a habit of introducing you to people when you most need them – they show up in the most funniest of places. A colleague from work introduced me to a friend of hers during a night out – she was worried sick – she had this hand reared Kaki Campbell duckling that was petrified of her other ducks. She'd found it half dead on the stable floor and had revived it with a drop of whiskey – have you tasted whiskey? I’m surprised she didn’t finish the poor thing off altogether. She been taking it into work with her, where it spent the day in the dog’s basket with her dog – but she needed to find it a home. Unlike us she hadn’t named it – she didn’t want to get attached. So George met Ozzy – what can I say, Stee named her. They didn’t like each other much at first, but they soon settled down together. When they were put in the pen outside for the first time, I didn’t sleep a wink all night – I was convinced they'd miss me. I open the door of their sleeping box the next morning – for morning read 5am – and they waddled out, not a bit bothered.

George still likes me to lift him in and out of the paddling pool – and if they’re roaming the garden you have to make sure the back door is shut or they both wander in and make themselves at home.

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I saw this in a shop yesterday and it made he smile:

Blogger is feeling generous today, it's let me post loads of pictures - including some of Warwick & Stratford