If you're easily upset, squeamish or vegetarian, I'd press on to the next blog if I were you.
I cupped my hand around the duck's head, holding its feet tight with my other hand. I lifted the head back and pulled down hard, but not too hard. I felt the neck break.
The flapping that followed - the body's nerves reacting after death - was disconcerting, but I did as I was told, put the wings between my legs and started the laborious task of plucking.
Marcus, our neighbour, had agreed to come and help me 'process' some of our flock of ducks (flock?). We got all the ducks into the stable and, not for the first time in the last couple of years, I found myself having to stop being a big fat Jessie and get on with things.
I'm scared of birds. All that flapping sends me to jelly, but there was nothing for it but to grab a bird, hand it to Marcus who immediately pulled its neck.
Quickly and quietly, we repeated the process four times before Marcus suggested it was time I had a go. Well aware that there could be no practice run, I fetched the sixth duck, Marcus told me exactly how to hold him, I took a deep breath and killed him.
Plucking was a pain. I had plucked one and a half in the time it took Marcus to pluck four, but the six ducks are now hanging up in the little caravan in the barn, waiting to be gutted and put in the freezer, ready for Christmas.
And I'm not about to get all philosophical about the killing - the first time I've dispatched one of my own animals myself. I'm not overly happy about it, nor am I particularly upset. It's part of the job, that's all and, if anything, I'm glad I now know how to do the job very quickly with the minimum of suffering for the bird.
Pass the plum sauce someone.