2065. The saga of Twaddle the Duck

It happened just the other day. Sefton had finished writing his daily blog and had used the word “Twaddle”.

“What a brilliant name for a domestic duck,” thought Sefton. “If only I had a duck.” 

He knew a couple of people who had domestic ducks. Garth called his duck Jemima.

“How very unimaginative,” thought Sefton. “The next time I see Garth I’ll suggest he call his duck Twaddle.”

Chayce also had a domestic duck, and he called it Rembrandt. “What a stupid name for a duck,” thought Sefton. “The next time I see Chayce I’ll suggest the name Twaddle.”

Both Garth and Chayce thought the name of Twaddle was horrible. “I think the name of Twaddle is horrible for a domestic duck,” said Garth. Chayce said the same thing: “I think the name of Twaddle is horrible for a domestic duck.”

Sefton invited Garth and Chayce to dinner. Ï know, Gentle Reader, what you are thinking; you are thinking they had domestic duck for dinner. Can’t you read? I said at the outset that Sefton didn’t have a duck.

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