The ducks know Wendy Mitchell, greeting their old friend in a gentle huddle before she even opens her carrier bag of seed.
“Because I come every day they remember me,” she says, beaming at the cacophony of quacking, feeding a couple of the birds from her cupped palm.
But while the ducks in the village pond know her, Wendy does not know them; at least, she can’t remember them, or doing this.
