The unicorn village
LEAVING a supermarket this week, I stared incredulously at the stacks of Easter eggs by the door. How could anyone eat these rugby balls of chocolate, I wondered? Perhaps my reaction explains a gathering sense of panic at home. Why, I was earnestly asked today, is there still no Easter chocolate in the house? What the children forget, however, is that what parents may deny, the fondness of grandparents will—in this case—certainly supply. I confidently predict an Easter-egg hunt with a positive orgy of chocolate very soon.
Meanwhile, the holidays have brought chaos at home. Despite early attempts to fight the rising tide of toys, fluffy animals now roam freely and the study is rapidly assuming the character of a nursery. From my desk, a dragon, a jumbo jet and a camper van filled with hedgehogs are just some of the objects that stand out from the mess. There are also two remaining marbles from a lethal scree formerly spread across the floor. Most tiresome of all, however, is the ‘unicorn village’ established in my bookshelves. Any attempt to evict the rubber residents elicits howls of complaint and I fear they may now have successfully asserted squatters’ rights.