THANKS TO WAITROSE, I CAN BE REINCARNATED AS A DUCK

Maybe it is the result of dental drilling, of which this week I have had my fill, so to speak, but I find my thoughts turning towards the Grim Reaper and what happens after he has reaped. On a previous visit my then dentist cautioned me against cremation on the grounds that he wanted me dug up 3,000 years hence so that the quality of his dentistry might be appreciated anew. Alas, nemesis invariably follows such hubris and his beautifully crafted filling was the very one to crack in two, necessitating this week's painful excavation operations. If I wasn't dying, then it felt like it.

All this put me in mind of Saki's disconcerting exchange between Laura and her friend Amanda.

“You’re not really dying?” are you, asks Amanda.
“I have the doctor’s permission to live until Tuesday,” replies Laura.
“But today is Saturday; this is serious,” gasps Amanda.
“I don’t know about it being serious; it is certainly Saturday,” says Laura.

Laura’s unconcern about her rapidly expiring mortal status is down to her belief that she will be reincarnated as an otter. Such beliefs are comforting and are fast becoming fashionable, especially, I am told among today's minor ‘celebs.’

Reincarnation, you see, offers the opportunity for prolonging one’s existence without having to contemplate the baffling inconsistencies of paradise, or for that matter being examined on arrival like a naughty child, which is what more conventional beliefs seem to require.

Lying in the dentist's chair I reflected on another advantage. If you are reincarnated presumably your teeth are reborn too, whereas if you merely ascend to heaven you will find yourself having to put up with the ones you've got. Still perhaps in paradise dentists work on a Sunday.

Had the idea been put to me at an early enough age, I might even have joined Laura in desiring rebirth as an otter. The thought of that effortlessly svelte figure, hair that didn’t frizz uncontrollably in the wet and the prospect of lunching on salmon every day could well have appealed. However otters in my childhood were noticeable by their absence, both from the banks of rivers and the pages of my reading matter. Beatrix Potter, AA Milne and Enid Blyton appeared never to have heard of them.

So my choice fell on the humble duck which seemed to offer several advantages to the would be reincarnatee. As a human I could only splash about ineffectually in shallow water, but a duck could really swim properly, and dive too. And should terrestrial locomotion not suffice, a duck could always shoot up into the sky after the fashion of Wonderwoman. Wow!

Feathers, I thought, also offered interesting possibilities. I liked the idea of living perpetually in a warm eiderdown; besides, I had been impressed by the decorative properties of my aunt’s feather boa! I knew farmyard ducks didn’t actually wear feather boas, but Beatrix Potter had drawn a duck with a muffler around its neck so I felt it was just a matter of choosing carefully the type of duck I wanted to be.

Ducks were also much more sensible about reproduction. None of that messy and unspoken business of producing babies from within one’s bowels! Eggs could be laid without any fuss at all. Had I not once observed a strolling goose simply dropping an egg on the soft grass without even breaking stride? And then to have infants - genetically programmed to follow you - I mean how cool is that? Any parent who has ever experienced the sheer unfathomable horror of 'losing' a human child, if only for a few minutes, will know this must be true.

Yet despite such advantages, what finally put me off the duck reincarnation idea was foie gras - that exquisite paté made of fat goose or duck liver that the eighteenth century wit and gastronome Sidney Smith, said should be eaten to the sound of trumpets.

But....as you probably know, foie gras is made by force-feeding ducks and geese a mixture of fat and grain so that their livers swell to five or six times the normal size. From this gross distended liver the sublime paté is made. Most people hold this to be very cruel.

Despite my fondness for my web-footed friends, I have to confess I have eaten foie gras on rare occasions when French hosts have served it. I cannot personally vouch for the trumpet experience but I have tasted foie gras accompanied by Chateau Yquem, one of France’s most delectable and sought after wines, and the combination was quite beyond words. Never has the conflict between morality and gastronomy been so acute.

But wait - help is at hand. Clever people at Waitrose Supermarkets have had the elementary idea of combining two by-products from normal table ducks into a new delicacy. What is foie gras, they ask, but liver and fat?

Now as it happens the said by-products are just that - duck liver and goose fat - and at present there is little market for them. The clever idea is to whisk them together in a blender to produce 'Faux Gras.'

It tastes, say testers, almost the same as the real thing. Perhaps not a perfect imitation but certainly most palatable. In any case a little experimentation will surely improve the recipe.

So when the time comes to shuffle off this mortal coil I can at last become a duck without fear that I shall be paying for the sins of this life by being stuffed with greasy muesli three times a day. Like Tobermory, another of Saki's creations, I may have more than one life, but I have only one liver and I intend to keep it the size that nature intended. I have had quite enough filling for one week.