Duck

In Seattle, the DUKW, a rather clever bit of Second World War engineering that converted a standard US Army truck into an amphibious transport, has been conscripted, quite against its will, into an attraction called Ride the Ducks.

If you've never encountered it, you are blessed. The "Duck" carts tourists about town and through the waters of Lake Union to the accompaniment of tour narration, twee music and duck quacks.

Amplified duck quacks.

Not surprisingly, you can find where the tours start by looking for a giant rubber duck, though why you would do so is beyond me. Personally, I give it as wide a berth as possible, which is why I keep a small mountain between me and it. Whenever I drive into town I have a hunted look as I crouch behind the wheel in case someone sees me within a hundred yards of the thing and my greatest dread is that my mother will see it on a visit, want to have a go and I'll be without my false beard.

My one bit of solace was the happy thought that when I go back to London I will be as far away from the "Duck" as one can get without bedding down in a yurt with a billy can full of boiled tea mixed with rancid yak butter. Unfortunately, that comforting thought has been ripped from me now that I've learned that a similar enterprise is operating under the very shadow of the Palace of Westminster.

And so another crack appears in the tarnished facade of civilisation.