One Of Life's Hardest Lessons, Learned

         Outside a restaurant in Queenstown, New Zealand one Sunday morning, a family of five takes a table for breakfast.
         The family are regulars and know the menu as well as any waiter there, so they place their weekly order without so much as a second thought before settling into their seats and resuming an animated discussion about the people of their church.
         A few feet from where they sit a slight, scrappy blond child chases a duck around a patch of grass.
         The child is dressed in nothing but a pair of camouflage-effect cargo shorts and, though he is really too old for them now, the waistband and the unmistakable bulge of a disposable nappy are clearly visible. He squeals and plods clumsily about, taking heavy uneven steps towards the duck.
         The duck - a greyish brown creature with a majestic flash of purple on each wing - manages to waddle and quack its way away from the child. It does so in rather a wobbly line, bobbing its head up and down much in the manner of a carved wooden pull-toy that the child used to own and, up until recently, play with. This delights him no end and he shrieks with glee whenever the duck does it.
         The family of five, their coffees arrive, and they turn their attention to each other once more.
         They do not look in the child’s direction again; not until they hear the screeching of tyres, the tinkle of broken glass, and a sickeningly resonant thud.
         When they do, they see that a 4x4 Land Rover vehicle has swerved and crashed into a stationary motorcycle parked at the side of the pavement, shattering its front headlight.
         Ten, maybe twelve, feet in front of the Land Rover’s front bumper sits the misshapen, lifeless body of the duck - its legs splayed out in an unnatural fashion, its neck tucked awkwardly beneath its chest.
         And there, safe from harm at the pavement’s edge, stands this breathless boy - his soft, shoeless feet teetering on the edge of the concrete - watching it all with wide and shining eyes.
         Four feathers, scattered at random, float serenely down to the ground. As the final one touches the asphalt, the child’s father appears as if from nowhere and scoops him up into his arms.
         The child clutches on to his father. He wants to sleep.
         My french toast arrives.
         I barely touch it.