SINCE when did sending cards at Easter become all the rage?
Yes, it’s miserable to moan, but it was the entire aisle at the supermarket dedicated to the occasion that tipped the balance.
Mother’s Day had left a similar disillusionment. Years ago, you picked your mother a few flowers and made her a card. Job done. Now it’s all about how much has been spent. There isn’t a bouquet to be bought that would mean more to me than a small person picking a few daffs.
We know a youngster who lost their mother and dad, who was saying how hard it is to escape all the fluff. Every shop and pub window covered in “treat your mother” notices. There’s very little tact about, just commercialism.
Our children have blown it as far as getting Easter eggs. The other day, they nudged each other and announced knowingly that “the hens don’t lay chocolate eggs”.
Every year, some have miraculously appeared in the nesting boxes on Easter Sunday but, apparently, last year was the giveaway. They got up early and filled the house with shouts of disappointment that none of the special eggs had been laid.
Their bedraggled mother rushed out, chocolate eggs stuffed into pyjama pockets, and came back inside, suggesting they look again.
“We guessed it was you,” said the youngest. Big sister revealed: “Yes, too much of a coincidence you going out and then eggs appearing. ”
They wish they’d said nowt as they have been told there is no reason now to buy the eggs. What trouble went into them. It was a real job, involving a trip to an old-fashioned sweetshop, to find chocolate eggs that weren’t emblazoned with some logo or other.
“You always get plenty of others,” the now redundant Easter Bunny tells them.
Anyway, there will be other things on my mind come Easter Sunday. There isn’t a single children’s service to be found at any of the nearby churches. Maybe there are marketing lessons to be learnt from the aforementioned supermarkets when it comes to rustling up a bit of footfall?
Without a service to go to, we’ll go straight to our appointment at the point-to-point races, judging a children’s fancy dress to be precise. What a tricky job. We’ve stood in the line-up at plenty of fancy-dress competitions on ponies, silently cursing the children in bought costumes when they get picked out above our hand-stitched. So, start schooling the children to say “we made it ourselves” if they want to be in with a chance.
The Husband is in trouble for a £4 haircut and had better find some sort of cap or that’s somebody else the Easter Bunny won’t be visiting.