LOVE A DUCK

When I lived in Ireland back in the 1970s I remember the Limerick Leader ran an article on the lonely farmers in the West who were boosting the local postal service. Apparently they were sending away to sex shops in London to order inflatable dolls to keep them company on those cold winter nights.

The story came back to mind on Monday when I read a piece in Europa Sur. It told of a woman in the Campo de Gibraltar who earned her living throwing sex toy parties. She told the newspaper that women from 18 to 70 came along to the event and many of the older women brought their daughters or grand daughters. At the end of the party they bought what they thought might enliven their sex lives.

There was a photograph of all the paraphernalia that one of these parties entails – vibrators, dildos, creams and oils. But what caught my eye was in the middle of the table covered with these sexual delights - it was a duck. The sort of duck you’d have floated in the bath as a child.

Now I’m very partial to duck be it on my plate or the village pond. I have long since given up on taking a yellow duck to my bath but I know that Gibraltar’s Rock Hotel does provide them for guests.

I have asked around a number of people who are more worldly wise than me but they failed to come up with the answer as to what a duck might be doing at a sex toy party. Being a determined reporter I now know the truth but my beak is sealed... let me just say that by all accounts it gives you good vibrations.

My grandmother often used to say “Love a duck” when she was surprised or dismayed. Now I know why.