22nd APRIL 2017
WHO DOES THE EASTER BUNNY THINK HE IS?
Hi Ewan here.
I’m always writing about things that have happened. That’s because at my age I know not what to expect. This week the subject is my experience of Easter.
Grandad says he’s been reading about blogs and that I should only be writing at most, 500 words. Readers need things that are sharp, amusing and succinct.
But I’m young and I am oozing with so much to say, even more than the amount of poo I ooze and that’s a lots but the words that come out of my mouth are very limited.
500 words are probably too many for grandad’s blog. At his age by the time he gets to 500 words he’s forgotten what he’s writing about anyway.
I’m wasting words now. So as it was Grandad’s birthday we celebrated Easter. They are the rules. The Easter Bunny comes at Easter and brings us chocolate eggs, like Santa bringing presents at Christmas. As you know I was a bit sus about Santa – Father Christmas (can you trust anybody who has so many names), but I’m even more sus about the Easter Bunny.
For a start, why does he have to hide the eggs for you to search for them? Can’t he just fill your stocking with them?
I’ve seen the Easter Bunny quite a few times. Unlike Father Christmas he never asks you what you want. He arrogantly dumps or hides what he thinks you should have. He’s not real bunny size either. I’ve stroked live bunnies at White Post Farm. They are rabbit size. The Easter Bunny is as big as my dad. Well, not quite that big, as big as my mum. I think he is Father Christmas in a Bunny suit. Have you ever seen the Easter Bunny and Father Christmas together? No, so I think they are the same person.
They use the same tactics, deviously coming in the night whilst we sleep. At Christmas we leave carrots out supposedly for Rudolf. Do reindeer really like carrots? When was the last time you heard of reindeer raiding a carrot patch. I bet Santa eats them more proof he’s the Easter Bunny, moonlighting.
I agree you do not hear of the Easter Bunny coming down chimneys, but he has to get into the house some way.
Brother Rory went up a chimney at Sudbury Hall. Children in Grandad’s day used to have to go up chimneys to cleaned them, which is fair enough, I suppose. I think they had to go up to get their presents from Santa too. In those days the idle old git couldn’t even be bothered to come down to deliver your presents.
Brother Rory didn’t see an Easter Bunny up the chimney or even Santa. They wouldn’t let me go up the chimney, saying I was too young. Too young! Ridiculous. Didn’t they know who I was?
At Thomasland I had to be checked out for all the hundreds of rides. They used a little wooden measuring stick. I easily passed every time, so in the end they didn’t even bother checking me, it was so obvious I was old enough. But, not for going up chimneys, apparently.
I suppose the Easter Bunny did leave us loads of chocolate eggs. We had to search for them, though. He could have saved us valuable time and effort by just putting them in our stockings. Lunacy!
However, he did leave us a brilliant book . “We're Going On An Egg Hunt” by Laura Hughes. Just like “We’re Going On A Bear Hunt” but different. It’s a real book, one with flaps to lift and everything. My only two criticisms are under the flaps there are pictures of eggs but no real ones and bears are a bit more scary than eggs.
On Easter Sunday we went to Grandad’s party at a pub.
“Yes, Ok, Grandad. I just didn’t know how many 500 words is. Let me finish this bit. ”
That was Grandad saying time to stop writing. I’ve done 650 words. Apparently, that is more than 500 words.
All four of us grandchildren were at Grandad’s party. When all of us are there is so much pressure to stay king pin, especially when you are next to the youngest. You are not advanced enough to push yourself forward like the older ones or cute enough to stand out like George. So you have to be creatively different. I managed to get myself sat at the head of the table but I was tethered down in a high chair. Well and truly “stuck”. But I pulled off this stunt of a lifetime that got Grandad sitting next to me…
No… No… Grandad don’t. I’ll have to tell you another time. He says I’m up to 800 words and he’s pulling…
When I was a lad at school around 13 years old, our Maths teacher used to call me Wol. At the end of the year as we were moving up a class I plucked up courage to ask why he called me Wol. He told meit was thename of the deslexic owl in Winnie the Pooh. With my Harry Potter glasses he said I looked like the Wise Old Owl in the Winnie the Pooh stories.
Being the vain person I am I took it as a compliment
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