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No, ducks aren't running riot in some sort of paddling marathon. Loose is where I live, and today is the day of the annual duck race when hundreds of yellow plastic ducks bob competitively along the Brooks Stream (that's it on the left; pretty isn't it?) to the noisy delight of children and adults alike. Except that today, as I write, it's pouring with rain and winds are so high they can't get the refreshments marquee up. I've been up since six, baking the cakes I foolishly promised to donate when full of wine and bonhomie in the local pub at Christmas (these things are planned well in advance you know).
I also have my orders from our leader, the venerable Roy Hood. Tanya and I must allocate the even numbered ducks and Sean will do the odd. I'm not quite sure why this is, but orders are orders. Must leave now as I need to find my wet weather gear.
I also have my orders from our leader, the venerable Roy Hood. Tanya and I must allocate the even numbered ducks and Sean will do the odd. I'm not quite sure why this is, but orders are orders. Must leave now as I need to find my wet weather gear.
Full race report, the runners and the riders etc, will be posted later, after I've dried off.
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