Hello, and sorry to anyone who has been anxiously waiting for me to resume my bloggerel. The bloggage has been removed. Basically I was away from home for a week’s holiday in the Peak District.
We were staying in Swanwick (not at the Hayes Conference Centre) and travelled around a lot. One of the things I had to get used to quickly was being called ‘Duck’. At first I thought I was being warned about low doorways (someone should have warned me about that at the National Tramways Museum) or a lone waterfowl nearby. But it’s a term of gentle affection. Not in a romantic way, of course, but in the same way that you may get called ‘love’ or ‘mate’ by stallholders in markets dahn Sahf.
Pronunciation is everything. For us Southerners it is ‘duck’ with a long vowel sound and should be pronounced like ‘look’ or ‘cook’ rather than a short vowel as in ‘cluck’ or… erm… ‘duck’. I’m not sure what the equivalent would be for those with strong regional accents from elsewhere.
I did enjoy being ‘dooked’ as it does not happen much in Essex (or at least not at all for the last two years here). It felt warm and friendly. It felt like I mattered a bit, even though I am sure the lady at the post office / small shop and the lady at the chippy and a few others called everyone ‘dook’.
A major contrast to this was when we went to Chatsworth House. It’s a very impressive pile in the middle of nowhere, and it is crammed full of paintings (on walls and ceilings as well as canvas), sculptures and other artwork. It felt very posh and like I did not belong there. I was most definitely an outsider who was visiting but would soon return to a less rarified atmosphere in which I felt more comfortable.
So when people encounter Christians, does it feel like they have been ‘dooked’ or does it feel like they have been to Chatsworth? Do they feel at ease and welcome or that they are simply visitors and can’t wait to get back to normal life?
Thanks dook.
A woman brought a very limp duck to the vet’s office. As she lay her pet on the table, the vet pulled out his stethoscope and listened to the bird’s chest. After a moment or two, the vet shook his head sadly and said, “I’m so sorry, your pet duck Rover has passed away.”
The distressed owner wailed, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure. The duck is dead,” he replied.
“How can you be so sure,” she protested. “I mean, you haven’t done any testing on him or anything. He might just be in a coma or something.”
The vet rolled his eyes, turned around and left the room, and returned a few moments later with a black Labrador Retriever.
As the duck’s owner looked on in amazement, the dog stood on his hind legs, put his front paws on the examination table and sniffed the duck from top to bottom. He then looked at the vet with sad eyes and shook his head.
The vet patted the lab and led it out of the exam room. He returned a few moments later with a cat.
The cat jumped up on the table and also sniffed delicately at the bird from head to foot. The cat sat back on its haunches, shook its head, meowed softly and strolled out of the room.
The vet looked at the woman and said, “I’m sorry, but as I said, this is most definitely, 100% certifiably, a dead duck.”
Then the vet turned to his computer terminal, hit a few keys and produced a bill, which he handed to the woman.
The duck’s owner, still in shock, took the bill. She screamed, “£150.00!? £150 just to tell me my duck is dead!”
The vet shrugged. “I’m sorry. If you’d taken my word for it, the bill would have been £20, but with the lab report and the cat scan, it’s now £150.00.”
nukelearfishing 
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