The Maladjusted Mallard

A tale of delusion, dignity, and inflatable royalty — as recorded by Mr B. Archer, Esq.

Dear Reader,

It is not every day one stumbles across a sovereign afloat.

And yet, there I was — wings behind my back, astride Terence the frog (who swims like he’s apologising to the water), when we rounded a gentle bend in the Ripplebrook and beheld a scene of such pompous majesty that even Terence paused mid-paddle and whispered, “Oh dear.”

There, drifting in the gentle current, was a mallard — but not just any mallard. No, this one had presence. The sort of presence usually reserved for marble statues, seasoned actors, or that one aunt who brings her own lighting to dinner.

And beneath him — his noble steed — a weather-beaten rubber duck.

A full-sized mallard, riding side-saddle atop a child’s bath toy like it was the HMS Audacity. He was perfectly upright. Perfectly poised. Perfectly bonkers.

“I say,” I ventured, as we drew nearer, “how’s the water, Your Majesty?”

The mallard turned slowly, gravely. He looked me up and down with all the contempt of a monarch forced to acknowledge a peasant wearing horizontal stripes. “Kneel, woodland subject,” he quacked. “You address Mallard the Magnificent, Sovereign of the Seven Streams, Commander of the Duck Pond, and Lord Protector of the Overflow Pipe.”

He gestured regally with one wing, nearly toppling into the water.

I bowed. One must, in the presence of royalty — especially royalty with an unstable centre of gravity.

Terence, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat. “And what, if I may ask, are you doing out here on... er... parade?”

“A royal inspection,” the duck replied, lifting his beak high. “The water’s been rebellious lately. Too splashy. Also, I’ve exiled three reeds for whispering.”

We drifted alongside him, entirely mesmerised. The rubber duck squeaked with every bob. Behind him trailed a line of confused water beetles, whom he referred to as “the royal guard.” One appeared to be wearing a thimble.

It became clear this mallard had not so much maladjusted as entirely re-written reality in his favour.

“I was born to rule,” he declared. “But the council of ducks lacked vision. Said I was ‘too dramatic.’ So I abdicated. Took the duck, the dignity, and the decorative pond weed, and founded the Kingdom of Floatopia.” He waved grandly at a patch of open water. “That bit there. Mind the lily pad — it’s my duchess.”

Naturally, I invited him to the Glowbug Gala that evening, where his entrance was met with stunned silence followed by applause, and eventually interpretive dance. Someone presented him with a throne made from a teacup. He knighted a snail. It was a success.

And that, dear reader, is the story of how I came to share diplomatic gin with a maladjusted mallard floating regally on rubber.

So remember:
If the world won't give you a throne, fashion one from bath toys.
If they mock your delusions, double down with dignity.
And never, ever underestimate a duck with a title.

Yours in royal ripples and floating lunacy,
Mr B. Archer 🐝🏹