March of the sinister ducks

We stayed at Forda, a small "resort" of A-frame lodges and converted farm buildings deep in the Cornish countryside. A games room allowed me to thrash PJ at table tennis, while a swimming pool and visiting beauty therapist provided rather more relaxing alternatives (for him). Best of all, though, were the grounds. Three fishing ponds were great places to sit and read the (out-of-date) newspaper, while listening to the sounds of nature and basking in the sunshine. And then there were the ducks. A flock? A swarm? A murder? Perhaps, more accurately, a pester of ducks -- 20 or so of the things, very friendly, very unafraid. Each morning, they would do the rounds of the different visitors, hoping for bits of bread. They'd lurk on the patio, quacking loudly, persistent in their requests. And then, just as Bauhaus and Alan Moore sang, they would march on, sinisterly, to their next victim.