The Ducks Are Not What They Seem.

I started thinking about a Gary Larson cartoon this morning. One of the many Far Side cartoons that I know and love. You probably know this one. Its the drawing of a businessman sitting at a desk, looking startled or worried. Behind him is a large glass window, and across the street is a high rise building In one of the windows there is a bird.  The caption reads, "Anatidaephobia: The fear that somewhere, somehow, a duck is watching you.

This isn't just some random thought, a memory fragment that flicked into my mind for no apparent reason. No, there is a cause and reason for it.

Like many, I work from home several days a week. I sit at my desk, in front of a large window, and can see the world pass by as I create PowerPoints and prepare documents.  It is a lovely view - old walls, a church, a house or two. All built hundreds of years ago, made with the stone for which the village is known.

This week, on three separate occasions, I have noticed a duck sitting on the rooftop directly opposite me. 

In my experience, ducks do not generally sit on peaked rooflines. Having webbed feet and all makes it seem like and unnatural and uncomfortable position to perch.  And yet on three separate occasions, on three different days, the duck has been there. And, I swear, it seemed like it was looking directly at me.

In many cultures, a duck on a roof is a good omen, bringing good fortune. And yet I'm not feeling the luck. I just think back to the Larson cartoon.

Why is the duck there regularly?  Why is it watching me?  Should I be worried?

Ah, paranoia. Philip K. Dick would be proud.

Dad.

My Dad, Don Cameron, passed away on New Year’s Eve at the age of 88.

It seems to me there’s a huge dose of symbolism there. A day that is traditionally seen as ringing out the past and welcoming the future. A day for remembrance, but also for hope.

Growing up, I thought Dad could do anything. And even in the last few years, as he struggled with breathing issues, arthritis, mobility and dementia, I found it difficult to reconcile the reality with that image.

He taught me many things; values, resilience, admitting failures. But mostly he taught me about being honest, about doing what’s right, even when no one is watching.

Dad was generous, gentle and compassionate, and I think he became more so as he aged. Scots have a reputation, undeserved, for being tight with money. The truth is that Scots in the north were generally poor and had to be thrifty in order to survive. But even now I am hearing stories of Dad’s generosity which I never knew. That’s who he was: quietly giving, never seeking recognition.

I wish Dad’s last words were “Franco Cozzo”, (google him, if you don’t know Franco) which would have made for a great tale and wonderful epitaph for years to come. And although it was only a few days ago he did blurt that suddenly and for no apparent reason, he went on to say other things before he passed. But that moment, like so many others, reminds me of his humour.

I last saw Dad in June. I had planned to visit later in 2025, but as he was declining I gathered my remaining leave dates and went earlier. I was fortunate to sit with him for several hours daily, to tell him how I felt, and to listen to his stories. There were even days he had moments of knowing who I was.

Sleep well, Dad. I love you always.

All the way to Nort-a Melbourne, Brunsa-wick and Foot-a-scray