The Twelve Days of Christmas: 7
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: seven swans a-swimming.
Swans have been a source of rapt fascination for me since I was a child, and it was a life’s dream come true to own one — let alone seven. I stood hand in hand with my true love, gazing at the swans gliding majestically across the lake’s still waters.
“And they’re really mine? All seven swans?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yours. Yes, that’s right.”
“Wonderful,” I replied. “I don’t how I can ever thank you enough. Aren’t they just such beautiful creatures? They move so gracefully through the water, don’t you think?”
“Well, it all looks graceful,” said my true love. “But what I admire more is that they’re paddling away like mad things underneath. Their legs are going nineteen to the dozen. It’s all terribly ungainly — even ugly.”
I chose to blot out the sound of cold water being poured on my words of admiration, and carried on regardless.
“And their eyes too. Surrounded by those black markings, they seem so deep and mysterious and — and — ”
“Evil,” interrupted my true love, as if this particular four-letter word was the one I’d been searching for. “They’re evil.”
Still captivated by the scene before me, I chose not to give in to such provocation.
“Swans have such romantic symbolism. If two swans come together, they can form a heart shape with their necks. Isn’t that simply perfect?” I continued.
My true love, however, would hear none of it.
“It’s not so romantic when one of the aggressive blighters thinks you’re trying to attack it and ends up breaking your fingers in its beak, is it?”
The challenge had been made. I prepared myself for a confrontation.
“You don’t really like swans, do you?”
“No, but I do adore disagreeing with you,” replied my true love, softly.
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