At 8am on Sunday I was desperately short of fuel while heading north from Birmingham. I should have stopped at Tamworth, but I wanted to make my stop in the East, not West, Midlands. So I pressed on. It was Donington Park Services or bust. I made it. Excellent. Donington Park was perfect because it’s roughly at the point where Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire meet. Peak East Midlands. This would do nicely.
There was a lot of toastie-based faff at Costa, so I went to Greggs instead, where, by the way, the coffee was really very good. But I wasn’t there for the coffee – I was there for the woman who served it to me. “Have a good day,” I said. “You too, duck,” she smiled.
And that was that. Job done. Marvellous. She had called me duck. I love being called duck. It’s the sweetest thing ever and, to my knowledge, it’s only in the East Midlands it happens. Duck! What’s not to love?
OK, “love” itself is nice, but a bit too widely used to feel special. And things like “sweetheart” or “darling” are a mite smoochy for me. Duck is all affection, but with a hint of mischief and fun about it. “Swan” wouldn’t work, would it? Too graceful, too regal. But a duck waddles, a duck quacks, a duck is just a nice friendly thing. Nowt fancy. Perfect.
I feel disloyal to my own patch here. All I can say is that back in the West Midlands, to be called somebody’s “bab” is very special, too, and comes a very close second to duck. A noble mention as well to “pet” in the north-east. And don’t get me wrong, I’ll take any term of endearment from anyone, and be very grateful for it, but I’d rather be someone’s duck than someone’s anything else.
On motorway service signs throughout the East Midlands area I suggest they consider promoting this. It would certainly make my life easier. If they put Duck Spoken Here, I’d be straight in.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
