By Steven C Davis
Or so Duckhouse Eddie would have thought, were he given to thoughts.
You see, Duckhouse Eddie … but I get ahead of myself.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Delia Spatchcock.
Yes, you heard me right.
Delia.
It’s an old family name; both my father and my grand-uncle (who was also my grand-aunt for a while) went by the name Delia.
But anyway.
Duckhouse Eddie was a lodger at – well, that doesn’t actually matter for this story.
He was strongly built, with a wide chest and a narrow waist; legs almost too narrow to support his bulk, but fortunately his head was quite light because it was mostly empty. It was said that when it rained – which, given it was mostly cloudy all the time, wasn’t actually that often – that he would feel it first.
But that wasn’t why he was called Duckhouse.
He was called Duckhouse because –
Well. I’m not sure we really need to go into that.
Anyway.
To rd. Yes. Well.
Oh, is that the time? I must be going. Maybe next time. You see, there are lots of interesting people in this cul-de-foggy-sack-built-buildings area. Thing. Whatever we call this place we make a home. I shall introduce you to some more of them later.
Ta-ta for now.