My decision to feeds the ducks at a nearby park was not motivated by crippling loneliness or the early onset of senility. I even brought along several friends to make certain of both.

As I round the corner and enter the third week of my post-holiday diet, I appear to be running out of ways to pass the time that does not involve alcohol, binge eating or criminal activity. Hence my Saturday plans would be to buy several loaves of bread and head to one of Auckland’s larger parks. (If I can’t eat the bread, at least the ducks can. I’m not going to mention the carbohydrates to them.) It would also offer me the chance to face one of my childhood enemies; the common farmyard goose. Along with the billy goat, these animals are the Corleones of petting zoos the world over. And I don’t think I have seen one since I was about as tall as them.

Saturday came and we were spoilt with some of the amazing weather that Auckland saves up until late January and releases all at once. It’s her last minute apology for ten months of complete crap. (We always take her back.) The four of us piled into one of those tiny, brilliant-yellow, asian cars built for foot-bound midgets living beneath the surface of the earth and I made a remark about bird flu. I wonder how many people come to see the ducks now that they have eclipsed Osama on The List? If New Zealand were to have any infected ducks, they could be at Western Springs, the park we were heading to. My reasoning being that if any birds had been smuggled into the country as pets or whatever, they would be released here. After all, you can’t exactly flush a duck. My God. A goose infected with bird flu.  That would be all my nightmares come to life.

We emerged from the car with the grace of rhinos squeezing from the birth canal, flashing boobs and butt crack at the nearby picnicking families. I had forgotten I could feel self-conscious when I wasn’t on the sauce. After composing ourselves, we headed down the wooded pathway towards the pond, bread in hand.

That was my first mistake. It should have occurred to me that after countless thousands of visitors bringing loaves of bread to this very pond, the common farmyard goose would come to recognize their shape and colour. I was easily spotted by three of them before I got anywhere near my strategic position (the picnic table at the water’s edge.). Geese: 1. Gordon: nil. I quickly mashed the two loaves of bread into my manbag, which I had brought along in part to carry my wallet and cigarettes and in part as protection – should the geese and I have to throw down. The ruse worked. Geese: 1. Gordon: 1.

And so we set up at the table and began feeding the ducks. Soon enough the geese followed. They’re actually not so tough once you hit your mid-twenties. In fact, they’re downright dumb. Every time I threw them a peace offering from the loaf, the ducks always beat them to it. My enemies were going hungry! It was great. And yet, despite the G-rated fun, the good company and the fantastic weather, I couldn’t quite stop my mind wandering to bird flu. It seemed so absurd that these little animals had the potential to bring the global economy crumbling down around us. They were ducks, for God’s sake. When I was growing up we were taught to be afraid of strangers. When my parents were growing up, they were taught to be afraid of nuclear war. Now it’s ducks. Seems almost like they pick these things at random.

I tried hard to be afraid of the ducks, I really did. But every time I tried to picture one as having bird flu, I started thinking more about them than me –about the logistics of it all. How exactly do you go about culling a population of thousands of inner city ducks living in several hectares of waterways and forests? I figure you use nets to catch them –then what? Poison them? Shoot them? Suffocate them? It all seems pretty grim. Men in white hazardous material suits would be wading through the water, making sure they were all dead and burned.  There are lotsof ducks here. I imagine the carcasses will be piled quite high –smelling like a strange mix of petroleum and Mongolian barbecue.

The ducks aren’t the bad guys –they are staring down the barrel of their own holocaust. We should be thankful that at least we can see it coming. One day –perhaps one day soon- they could wade out of the water towards this very table, eager for a feed (perhaps they’ll use the same brand of bread?) and that would be it.

I am not anthropomorphizing here. I could run over a duck tomorrow and would not lose any sleep over it. It is more about our seeming readiness to unleash mass death at the drop of a hat, our propensity for destructive behaviour. It’s all rather chilling and –dare I say- familiar?

But we are not there yet and these thoughts are too deep to last long on a sunny Saturday morning. They last about as long as our bread does. And as we turn to leave I see two families heading towards the bird army we have amassed, carrying loaves of bread. For today, at least, this is just a duck pond

Gordon White lives in Auckland where he drinks heavily and works for the New Zealand Herald. There is a volcano at the end of his street. He mentions this often.