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‘’Pass me some croissant there’s a fatty duck’’ I tell Jo. She’s made it her mission to feed the underdog, a little black duckling circling on the outskirts of the feeding frenzy. I, on the other hand, am giving in to the bird-turned-piranhas. ‘’Quack Quack’’ I hear Jo say in a strategic effort to communicate with her adoptive child. ‘’Don’t be an idiot’’ I scold, ‘’they’re French ducks. Parisian ducks.’’ I pinch my nostrils together tightly, and in true french fashion, I mime a duck flapping its wings. ‘’Quaque Quaque”. Jo laughs and joins in the semi-offensive charade. Except sadly no one's throwing croissants at us. It’s a terrible double-standard if you ask me. All we gain are a few looks of shame from our fellow park-goers and one man even shakes his head. The typical Parisian attitude that YouTube parodies had warned me of. However one lady seems to notice our act, and begins to close in on us with her two children. With her right-hand, she’s dragging her son, a brooding blonde-haired six year old boy with evil eyes, meanwhile with the left she’s pushing a little girl in a big black buggy. Her nostrils are flaring and she looks about ready to erupt. We glance at each other, then at the exit, thinking it best to remove ourselves from the situation. But we’re not quick enough. ‘Pouvez-vous prendre une photo?’ she demands, trapping us in her tractor-beam eyes. Before I can even respond ‘oui, bien sur’ she’s nodding her head and saying ‘merci’. She puts her phone in my hand, and hoists the little boy onto a wobbly, wooden fence at the end of the pontoon. The devil-spawn is frowning directly at Jo, arms crossed, he’s soaked in attitude. Now I’m no professional photographer, so I take a couple to be on the safe side. I make sure to include the pond's centerpiece, a towering, overgrown island that blends well with the naturalistic park scenery. All in all, not a bad job I think. But the woman disagrees. With a typically french ‘eeeeeuuurr’ she narrows her eyes and repeats ‘trop loin’, meaning ‘too far’. So we move closer. The second time, she zooms in and I sense her stress turn to disappointment. ‘No!´ ´Trop loin, trop loin’. I catch Jo smirking. ‘Your turn’ I say, shrugging my shoulders. She holds out her hand but the moment is quickly interrupted by a window-shattering scream as the boy falls and crashes onto the solid decking. In a vain attempt to calm the little banshee, I tell him I like his shoes, and he does stop crying for a brief moment. But only to furrow his brows in my direction. The screeching worsens when his mum chides him for ruining the picture. ‘PHOTO, PHOTO!’ the woman hurriedly screams, but it’s too late. During the ensuing chaos of her brother’s tantrum, the toddler girl emancipated herself, unnoticed like a ninja, and is now sprinting across the park towards a damp pile of leaves. Damien laughs menacingly as his mother gives chase, then uses the opportunity to rifle through a food bag hidden in the buggy. It feels like groundhog day as we watch this same chaotic sequence of events unfold over and over again between each new photo shoot. Unsurprisingly, every new photo is met with a familiar response. ‘Trop loin! Eugh! C'est pas difficile!’. It’s now been twenty minutes and whilst not quite an eternity, I’m starting to sympathise with Sisyphus. We're unable to break free, despite telling her we have tickets for La Louvre. I suppose she thought her family photo could rival the Mona Lisa. At the thirty minute mark, we decide enough is enough, and the woman's best efforts can't stop us from escaping to a nearby bench. We watch her temper flare from a safe distance when she catches the boy stealing yet more nuts from the buggy. In a melodramatic gesture, she violently shakes the bag’s contents into the pond, attracting several more ducks. Jo points to the far end of the pontoon. The lady’s outburst has caught the attention of a kindly french man. Poor guy. ‘Run’, I murmur. But we’re too far away.