My Little Duck

          We decided last night that we’d be leaving for America this coming weekend, so I spent the day today working furiously. I ended up staying in Chambers until around eight. Ed was truly bored by this point so he agreed to come meet me in the pub. Scheherazade was about and managed to invite herself along. I was dubious as to the sense in putting her in the same room as Ed but I resigned myself to it.

            Once inside the local pub and in possession of the appropriate beverage, Ed and I stood at the bar discussing his latest target with Scheherazade.

            “Mate,” I said, at a break in his description of her, “she sounds like more effort than she’s worth.”

            “Ah, my good man, you’re missing the point once again.”

            “Let me guess…”

            “…she’s a hot chick.”

            “Excuse me!” A girl had come over to the bar to order a drink. She’d been standing behind Ed as he’d been talking. At this interruption he turned around.

            “Good evening,” he said, flashing a ridiculously over the top grin.

            “I didn’t wish to engage you in conversation, but rather to inform you that the female of our species is not fowl.”

            “Well now, that all depends on the specimen in question.”

            “I do not mean ‘foul’ as in…”

            “I know,” he replied, laughing. “But either way, you’re wrong.”

            Ed stared at the girl who returned his gaze steadily. She waited for him to explain and he waited for her to ask him to.

            “Explain yourself man!” I interposed, fearful of murder by gaping (in their case) or boredom (in mine).

            “It’s simply a question of culture,” he explained, “when an English man calls a lady a ‘bird’ or a ‘chick’ he is simply demonstrating his cultivated sense of European language and tradition,” he knowingly raised an eyebrow at the girl. “For example, in French one might address a maiden as ‘mademoiselle’ and as you are no doubt well aware that more or less equates to ‘Mrs Bird’ in English. Equally, consider Spanish, in which a girl is a ‘chica’ which sounds suspiciously like ‘chick’ to me! So there you are my dear, I simply sought to emulate our civilised continental cousins who themselves aimed merely to compare the fairer sex with the most graceful and elegant of creatures.”

            Now the girl raised an eyebrow at Ed: not an eyebrow of knowing, but rather one of reckoning. Scheherazade too looked interested; I’m not sure how I felt about that. Ed chose this moment to bugger the thing up completely.

            “So how about it? Fancy a fuck, my little duck?”

            The moment of brief admiration flash boiled away.

            Once out of sight Ed enlightened me: “She wasn’t my type,” and I nearly passed out from shock. “You know,” he continued, changing the subject, “until now I wasn’t sure you were a real lawyer. Aren’t you supposed to work this late every night?”

            “I’m sorry,” I replied, “you had doubts about the reality of my job?”

            “Don’t know what yer on about mate.”