The sick and silent monkey claims Angel and my duck are starting to acquire the so-called pet-ownee mutual resemblance syndrome. This suggestion is as absurd as it is insidious. For one, my duck does not have hairy ears. And if we are getting to be so alike, why is everybody fawning over Angel and clamouring to give her rubs on her furry underparts, while my poor duck suffers for want of tactile affection and draws not the caress of foxy hands? Some quacks, on the other hand, seem to have no problem courting the hit brigade.
I have also set up a little gallery for Angel; a certain animal instinct, however, disabused me from performing a similar service for my otherwise unabashed duck, especially in its fully
-grown-fledged form. Popular demand and an expressed willingness to pay for the privilege may persuade a change of mind though.
Still on remotely ducky topics, the monkey and I found ourselves at Food Republic in Vivocity this cloudy day. This establishment eschews the sleek and shiny surfaces of its pretzel-shaped host for the faded veneer of a time when food was hardly ever consumed in royal chambers. Something about the decor, though, reminded us less of the lacqeured charm of vintage eras than of the bordellos of the age of innocence. It could be due to the kitschy cries of crimson light that dangle amidst cut-out snowflakes from the overhanging field of schmaltz. Or it might be a subtle hint whispered from the rows of cages that adorn the walls, empty now but for the ghosts of seductive songsters both fair as well as feathered. The impression may well be false; my duck certainly disavows direct experience of visualising any abode of ancient professions (though I can't say the same about the monkey, who is given to cheaper thrills). Certainly, the patrons help to dismantle the thought, treating enquiring monkeys with the scant respect of tramps and comprehending not the letter Q. But even then, it's hard to perish the thought that this place sustains a similar spirit of suspended realities, where the imagined pleasure of past glories is peddled for a charmed moment that feels good so long as last bite of the creamed cherry.
Some would know of my duck's disaffection for overly-condimented concoctions, such as noodles starched with lycopene. It's bewildering how the request for a portion of root vegetable tops in the pallid shade of SK-II nonetheless results in a dish dripping with soy at its most saccharine and the saucy quip that black tastes better. I am indeed partial to the dark side, but where it comes to pan-fried servings of radish in lard, I prefer mine to approximate the untanned tone of ducks that have never seen the light of day.