Marlborough Express - Weekend Express
The joy of jigsaws and a pig of a puzzle
Peppa Pig has a lot to answer for. There are tiny, pink body parts strewn across the carpet which is awash with pieces from not one, but two puzzles.
I’m not sure why the manufacturer thought it was a great idea to combine two in one box but they did. Thanks for that by the way; no really, thank you.
I am not a huge fan of putting puzzles together but Miss Five thinks they’re a wonderful way to pass the time. I have puzzled my way through many a tortuous hour looking for missing pieces that she is invariably sitting on or we find three weeks later, stuck to the cat.
It was fine when she was younger, and I look back in fondness at the halcyon days of simple, easy-to-do jigsaws but a 25-piece Winnie The Pooh puzzle? Pah! She scoffs at such babyish offerings now.
Miss Five is a 150-plus piece girl now and it’s driving me crazy. We start off in a civilised fashion as I encourage her to look for all the straight-edged pieces. Sitting side by side, the TV switched off and the only noise her contended little sighs, I convince myself this time will be fun.
Idly, I pick-up a piece and hold it hovering over a couple of possible spaces. Miss Five raises her eyebrows at me.
‘‘Not there, Mum’’ she informs me as she proudly slots in another piece, taking pity on her bemused mother and taking my piece away.
I pick up Peppa’s left eyeball and part of her snout and glance at the box for further guidance. Peppa is sitting opposite Daddy Pig at a table in the garden, holding an icecream cone and looking pretty darned pleased with life. I briefly contemplate the difficulties of being a pig and finding a factor 3000 sunscreen. Sizzling bacon anyone? From Daddy Pig’s red face I fear it will be too late for him. But I digress.
Miss Five is starting to lose her patience. The piece selection process is becoming more frenzied and little fingers are plucking at random bits. The rejected pieces are thrown down in haste and soon there is a mixed-up muddle of abandoned segments littered across the floor. I try to bring calm to the chaos but she is in too much of a hurry and snatches some from my hand.
‘‘George’s bum!’’ she shouts out in delight having found a piece. Really? I turn it the right way round for her. ‘‘Daddy Pig’s head.’’ I tell her. For those of you who have not met Daddy Pig, he is somewhat follicaly challenged.
While she seems somewhat disappointed, Daddy Pig soon has his head and we have managed to keep ours - just.