I was invited to a school fete. Inside me said, no way, you’re not going to that – it’s all finger-painted ice-cream sticks and mothers racking up brownie points from the principal. But outside me smiled politely and said, sure, I’d love to support the local school. Even if the kids do smell like home-made cheese and have names even a Hollywood star would balk at.
Well, maybe I thought that last bit.
On arrival I was immediately roped into minding the whack-a-mole stand because one of the mums had to leave, citing a very-sudden-onset vomit bug. She managed to shoot me a sly grin before she left, a cloud of dust the only evidence of her passage.
The afternoon sort of went like this:
“No, you can’t have another go. It’s someone else’s turn.”
“It’s supposed to be a mole, not Mr Radley’s head.”
“Is there anyone who can take over while I go to the bathroom?”
“Cutting in is really uncool.”
“Please don’t wipe your hands on me. You were just picking your nose.”
“No you don’t get a prize. You didn’t hit any.”
“Well you’re uglier.”
“Are you sure I can’t go to the bathroom? Or grab a coffee?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that was your head.”
“Don’t push in.”
“Any chance of a coffee?”
“Can you stop wiping your hands on me?”
“Well maybe you’re the booger face.”
“Come down from there before you hurt yourself.”
“Sorry, is there any vodka? And an aspirin would be nice.”
“Can you stop yelling please?”
“One at a time please.”
“Well at least I don’t smell like cheese.”
“I’m calling Santa right now.”
“I’ll give you $10 if you get me an aspirin.”
“I’ll donate $1000 to the school if I can go home now.”
Strangely, I was invited to assist at the Christmas Dance.