44 days, 44

Day 44. Friday the 13th (what are the chances?)… The last day of Blog Camp.

So, it can be done. One CAN write a little thing every day and share it with one’s two readers.

You can do it even with normal, rainy days like today. Days that start with ‘So much to do, but there’s PLENTY of time, let’s have a coffee’; continue with: ‘Ehm, this is taking a bit longer than I thought…’; become really interesting with: ‘Oh no, there’s THAT (and that and that and that) to do too…’ and ‘WHAT, you need a ride into town, and where else? And you want to be picked up too?’; and end with: ‘So much to do. Yawn. And the blog. What can I possibly write about today?’

This is where, today, the toad comes in. Back from the shower (mixed with heavy rain and wind, shower curtain wrapped around me like a cold octopus), so yeah: back from the shower, I find the toad on the veranda. It makes these slow and sticky lunges in my direction. After the shower curtain, I have no desire for another cold, wet encounter. So I say: ‘Shoo’ – of course, it's both inaccurate (what do you say to a toad) and useless. The creature gives another exhausted lunge.

I notice it has big dark eyes – in the light of my torch they shine without any discernible expression. At this point, I think of the Frog Prince. And recoil; imagine picking Starship Slime here and giving it a life-changing kiss. A second alarming thought: how many people actually see a toad AND immediately picture kissing it? Have I lost it, reader?

You’ll be relieved to hear: I didn’t kiss the toad. I have my prince already – and he’s on his way home!

In the meantime, blog written, there’s still SO much to do.

44 days, 43

Cheeta wakes me up in the middle of the night: do you see how the neighbour's wall is all lit up? He whispers.

The unspoken question: 'Is there someone in our house?' We look at each other with dread.

Well used to domestic martyrdom, I sigh. 'I'll go!'

'I'll come with you!' – he's no lily leaf himself.

'Wait! Let me put my jammy trousers on!' Like that's gonna instill respect in your average house robber.

Armed with keys, torches and a blackberry, we march in grim silence to the house.

The effect is slightly spoiled when Saffie starts barking like mad, right at the back door. 'Great. Now they know we're coming!' , 'Well, hopefully they'll grab the stuff and run!' etc., etc.

It's at this point that WE get distracted in a big way. Our joined torch beams reveal that Saffie is not barking at a gang of masked robbers, but at a hedgehog on the threshold of the tool shed. One lightning-fast shuffle, and it's gone! The sweet little prickly thing is inside the shed now. We look for it but it's vanished completely among buckets and paintbrushes. We can't leave the door open and unlocked (well, it was open and unlocked... but the robbers, remember?) - so we spend some time widening the gap between the door and the ground. 'Do you think he'll manage?', 'How long are those quills?', 'Sorry, didn't have the chance to measure them.', 'Shall I bring a saucer of milk?' etc.

Eventually we get back to our intruders. I wonder briefly why they need so much light, for so long. There's not much in there, just some of Cheeta's tools and empty juice bottles. We advance slowly and carefully, while I try to remember how to attack people with a small bunch of keys. Perhaps I should pick up a stick? A leftover plank of plasterboard? A trowel? No time. We are upon them. They seem to be in Nikita's bathroom.

We charge in, jammy trousers flapping, torches waving. Nothing. Not a soul. We look around. We look at each other. Nikita:

'Mica-a. Did you forget to turn the lights off?' Uh-oh.

44 days, 42

Went to the fair with Kira and her friend. Everything was exactly the same as every fair, as every year. The same rides, the same prices, the same dreadful music, the same food, the same bands. For Kira however, everything was new and full of charm. The main attractions:

And even more interesting, being sealed into a huge beach ball and rolled into a baby pool. The objective: to get up and run on the spot, à la hamster-in-the-wheel:

Which resulted mainly in this:

The big let down: riding a temperamental plastic bull. It went on for ages and bucked and shook them about until they looked like two exhausted limpets stuck to its back.

The cowboy hat they won made up for some of the pain:

At the end, Kira had a question: 'Why is everyone who works here Indian?' It was true, all the poor sods stuck all day in those booths looked particularly tanned. Travelers? Nomads? Gypsies? But how come? Are they the only people who can put up with the endless wondering, mud and dust and heat and the slow march of hours on the fairground?

Their children are there with them, sitting around all day. A father put his toddler in those elastic harnesses above the trampolines, to fast forward some time. The little fellow bounced about a few times, then grew weary and lost momentum, until he stopped, suspended in mid-air like a broken marionette.

44 days, 41

Normal day at the building site. Nikita's getting ready to paint, using some lovely clay-based paints and casein primer. Nice and natural. You're not sure? Does the word 'casein' induce a little doubt? Should we find out more? Casein, a 'protein commonly found in mammalian milk' (thanks Wikipedia!) Now doesn't that sound sweet and harmless? You make this watery potion containing casein and apply in on walls, just before the paint. Look - Nikita's about to do exactly that... He opens the bottle where I stored some casein primer a few days ago.

It does this soft fffsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

Then, in succession: we are engulfed in a cloud of the most horrendous foul smell you can imagine (yes Moona, even worse than rotten onions!). We both scream with the only resulting effect that we inhale more of it and a) I realise it couldn't be Nikita and b) he realises it couldn't be me. We run and gag. We try not to breathe. We try not to puke. We squirm and suffocate a little. Can't bear to take another breath, can't quite carry on without one... The noxious cloud is still hanging low, inside the house and in the back garden – where Niki bravely disposed of the poison in the bottle. We run further away and cough and gasp. WHAT is this HORROR?

And this is how we learn some more about casein.

44 days, 40

Kira woke up in yesterday morning tingling with excitement for the upcoming Easter Egg Hunt.

Easter Egg WHAT? was the motherly reaction, I'm a little ashamed to say. In fact it's worse...(WHAT? Today's EASTER?) Ahem, right.

Nikita jumps to the rescue. Three coffees later (all for me), we have some clues, and we walk the Trail and hide the eggs. Then she's ready to go:

She doesn't much like the first Clue:

'How do you define 'compost loo'?
I need to know now, please, I beg...
'Simple! YOU give IT a fresh... shhh
('Oh tell me, do!' 'OK, starts with 'p', ends with 'oo')
And IT gives YOU a chocolate egg!
(there is, by the way, one more clue:
Don't be late
Don't jump in
Try the gate
Not that one, that's the door, try once more:
the BACK gate!)

So she makes a face, but finds the gate and we have CHOCO-LIFT OFF!

And on it goes. It tests the mind:

… and the body:

Some eggs are easy to get:

Some require assistance from all, including Saffie:

It leads to a tight spot, as always. Luckily the girl has a good eye and long arms, she strikes gold:

And gets the great prize!!!!

And now can we all have a nap?

P.S. This was my partner-in-chocolate. The Force was with him, again. He saved me from a life of juvenile rhyme and meadows of lost Easter eggs. Thank you, Master...

44 days, 39

OK, April 2012. What do you see? (apart from the two clowns in the rain)

Do you see it? I've only noticed today.

Life times ten, then.

44 days, 38

So, after swearing I wouldn't take them to see The Hunger Games, I took them. Well, in my defense, I took them to see The Lorax, but it was dubbed in Portuguese. The problem was not the language, we'd seen Tintin in Portuguese and got the idea. The problem was hearing a virile, well-oiled, radio presenter voice trying too hard to translate Danny DeVito in Portuguese. Ouch - I couldn't bear that, the kids concurred.

So The Hunger Games it was. My problem with it? Suggesting that the idea of kids chasing and killing other kids might be acceptable and entertaining - albeit in a faraway fantastic future.

In fact, that was the least important issue in Kira's mind. The games were the games, once she knew the rules, she waltzed along. What utterly grabbed and bewildered her was the status quo in that future world: 12 districts living in abject poverty and one pampered Capitol, looking like another planet. What did they do, the people in those districts, what did they DO? - she kept asking. What is a revolution? Why did they rebel? Why were they so poor? WHY were The Hunger Games their punishment?

We tried to explain - really, we did but it was hard to paint a believable scenario. It all sounded too bizarre; that those districts would meekly accept to be plunged into a grey never-ending existence where a bread roll was a dream come true. That they would be just fine with the Games, in fact that they would watch them and be proud if their boy or girl killed everyone else and won! That all this misery was enforced by a few poncy troops like Darth Vader's white pawns in Star Wars.

Instead, all I could think of was the ancient tribute to Crete - the 12 boys and 12 girls sent to the Labyrinth every year to face the Minotaur. I think I'll tell her about that today.