It seems as though I’ve acquired a reputation for being a bit of a soft touch around here. The wildlife here in Wavendon is becoming much too familiar.
Look what happened when I left the front door open one day last week: 
Recently, this kind of downright bad manners has been happening much too often and I'm not happy about it.
“You’re an anatidaephobe,” Caroline told me later that day.
“No, I’m not,” I said, reaching for my laptop computer.
“Yes, you are.”
“I certainly am not," I huffed, opening the laptop.
“You are."
“No, I'm not," I said, raising my voice a little, hoping Caroline was getting a sense of my indignation. The internet was very slow that afternoon.
“I think you are,” she said, using the same tone of voice and facial expression as a mother asking her baby if he’s filling his nappy.
I said nothing. I didn't want to argue until I knew what we were arguing about.
There was silence. She went back to writing some report or other while I frantically consulted the Oxford online dictionary to find out what on earth she had just accused me of and whether it was something nasty and unpleasant.
Oh, so that’s what Caroline thinks I am. She could be right.
“Well, if I am, you’ve got to admit I’ve good reason,” I said.
“Told you,” she smirked.
“Yes, but you're only right in as much as I would be one if it were only a feeling I have. But it's not just a feeling. It's a fact and it really is happening so it can't be irrational and therefore I’m not whatever it is you called me."
I can prove it. Look at these photographs. I took them from the chair I sit in most of the time:
What more evidence do you need?
Anatidaephobia is “a pervasive and irrational fear that one is being watched by a duck” but I’m sure that unlike me, you already knew that.
But, as I told Caroline, I’m not a true anatidaephobe because my anxiety is certainly not irrational. I am constantly being watched and not by just one duck - by lots of ducks.
As I write this, there are six outside on the lawn and they’ve been watching me all morning - just staring.
Postscript
Look what was left on the doormat when I eventually got the intruders to leave:
It was the one furthest away that pooed on the mat. At least the other four have the grace to look a little embarrassed.
I spoke to Cyril the squirrel about it. I introduced you to Cyril in “Smarter than The Average Felon”. (Click to see)
The first thing he said surprised me. “My name’s not really Cyril, you know. I told you it was Cyril because it rhymes with squirrel and I thought that would be very funny. It’s actually Richard.”
Squirrels must have a weird sense of humour, if he thinks that's really funny.
“Who pooed on my doormat?” I asked him.
“That would be Fiona,” he told me. “She does that sort of thing.”
“How can I stop ducks pooing on my mat?”
“Baffles me,” he said.
“I’m really baffled,” he went on. “You have no idea how baffled I am. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I'm well and truly baffled. I’m so baffled that…..”
“Will you please stop going on about that bloody Baffle?” I shouted, interrupting him. “It’s staying on the feeding post, so just accept it. That food is for birds, not for you so get over it.”
“That’s the whole point,” Richard shrieked, “I can’t get over it. None of us can. It's not fair!”
Then, Richard, or whatever his name is, scurried off up the silver birch. He’s been sulking and avoiding me ever since.
I've told Fiona that she's not welcome here again until she apologises and promises that it won’t happen again.
