I used to think swans were special. You can hardly blame me; they have such good publicists. Some of their propoganda triumphs include: countless retellings of The Ugly Duckling; encore performances of Swan Lake; Schubert’s relabelled Schwanengesang; and the Sydney Swans being in the AFL grand final for two years running.

You don’t see a lot of swans in Australia so to me, they’ve been mythical beings. When I arrived in England, I was lucky enough to spot a swan on the River Cam. Excitedly, I snapped dozens of photos. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! I was paparazzo.

In the seven months I’ve been here, I’ve come to the realisation that they’re everywhere. That’s right, swans are everywhere. Common as dirt, and they nearly all belong to the Queen.

Mum’s first day in Cambridge: ‘Oh, mum, don’t bother with that old thing. They’re everywhere.’

‘Hello, swan, we meet again.’

‘Smile for the camera!’

Smiling for the camera.

‘What, you call us all the way here and there’s no food? We’re leaving!’

They left behind a feather as a mark of their disdain.