This morning, holiday started for me. Easter holiday, that is. Most of us pupils don’t even know what we’re celebrating at Easter. We don’t even care, just as long as we’re freed from school. This probably means that in a decade or something we’ll not have Easter holiday anymore. Nobody my age then will remember and nobody will be celebrating much of anything (except for the OAPs). It will be a thing of the past and we’ll be 35 years old and go like,’ Say, do you remember that some 20 odd years ago, when we were in secondary school, we’d have two weeks off?’ and there’d be a big silence and somebody’d be like,’ Yeah, you’re right. What was that all about, then?’
What is it all about? Most of us actually believe it has something to do with the Easter Bunny. Are they serious! We get two weeks off of school, because of a hopping mad bunny hopping around gaily with a basket full of eggs!? Where did he get those eggs in the first place!? That’s what I would like to know. Santa’s got his elves; does the Easter Bunny have his own chicken coops, where rainbow coloured chickens eat rainbow coloured seeds to produce rainbow coloured eggs? They just let that big bad Bunny take away their possible offspring and hide it from them?
Come to think of it. Maybe we have misinterpreted the whole thing. Maybe the Easter Bunny is not hiding eggs for us to find. Maybe he’s hiding the eggs so that the chickens will never find them. It’s just a big bad bully Bunny coming back each and every year to steal those eggs. And we go out and find those eggs, but instead of returning them to their rightful owners – the chickens that lay the rainbow coloured eggs – we eat them! I’d like this theory to be investigated. If anything turns out to be true, I would like to have full credit and I’d like this dreadful feast to be abolished right away.
Anyways, today was Dad’s birthday, but he was not celebrating. He was thinking about inviting the family over to Unice’s barbecue tomorrow evening, but Mum talked him out of it. I bought him a book about getting older and dealing with it (the title has slipped my memory and Dad has hidden the book in a good place – he’s got issues) and I bought him a pair of reading glasses (which he has probably hidden in the same place as the book). Dad is still denying the fact that he is getting older and that his eyes are getting worse. He can’t read the small prints anymore, but refuses to admit it. Each time he has to read small prints he asks Mum to read it to him as he’s got something stuck in his eye. How often can a man get something stuck in his eye? And is it always the same thing that gets stuck there? I guess I will find out when I’m his age. See me tomorrow.