Les Canards

I fantasize about ducks, not so much those that paddle around in filthy municipal ponds back home, chasing chunks of bread thrown by bored children... They sort of disgust me, those ducks.

I'm more thinking foie gras, duck confit, magret. I'm addicted. Yet, with all that goodness and fat, eating them makes me ache with guilt sometimes. Its not guilt because I feel like I should go to the gym, but guilt because it can be too much of a good thing. Too much of things that are only mediocre make me feel that way too.

Oxford street in London makes me insane. I swore, after my first trip to Oxford street that I would never go back but somehow I find myself there regularly now. I've sort of gotten used to it, I wish that I hadn't.

Back to ducks. I imagine myself raising them, being followed around by ducklings on a daily basis. Somehow, the unglamorous task of raising them, having them shit on my boots, and then the gut-wrenching job of killing, plucking, dissecting them might make up for my indulgence. That is my fantasy.

Is this a mere canard?

ca⋅nard:

1. a false or baseless, usually derogatory story, report, or rumor.
2. Cookery. a duck intended or used for food.
3. Aeronautics. a. an airplane that has its horizontal stabilizer and elevators located forward of the wing. b. Also called canard wing. one of two small lifting wings located in front of the main wings.c.an early airplane having a pusher engine with the rudder and elevator assembly in front of the wings.