The Easter Bunny that got away

Happy Easter everybody! Thought I’d give you all a giggle and share my humiliating humping bunny story…

Many years ago one of my awesome teacher friends asked me if I would dress up as a bunny and hop around the little forest that perched on one of the corners of their school grounds (it was a fabulous private school).

I would also have a basket filled with Easter Eggs which I would toss out and  “hide-in-plain-sight” for the kids to find. Then they’d share them equally in class afterwards.

It seemed like a simple task.

The due date arrived and I wriggled into the full, furry (very musty smelling) bunny suit. Ronelle pointed me in the direction of the forest. There was a gate at the far end which she had unlocked for me and a getaway car was waiting on the road to spirit Mrs Bunny off.

Ronelle envisaged that the kids would be a tad nervous and would be more interested in collecting the Easter eggs.

So I set off, merrily hopping around – feeling like a 24-carat, grade-A idiot. But hey! Anything for friends – right?  I had not hopped far when I spotted a dog.

A big dog.

I like dogs.

A lot

But I’d never really hung out with them before looking like a bunny and smelling like a dusty, mouldy old heap of matted fur. I started getting a tad nervous when said dog bounded up and started sniffing me.

“Nice doggy, now shoo,”  I mumbled through my bunny head-gear.  “Lovely dog.  Seriously… now bug off and let me do my job so I can get out of this smelly suit.

Was starting to sweat and the pong was getting more disgusting by the second.

But noooo….

Said dog liked Mrs Bunny so much he wanted to have her babies – literally. He started humping my leg.

I tried to shake him off.

He was having none of it. The harder I shook the more he humped.

By now I had an extra worry. Ronelle was going to give me a few minutes to get into the forest and hide some eggs and then she was going to let her kids out of class.  They should have just had a delightful glimpse of Mrs Easter Bunny – calmly hopping from tree to tree.

Not be traumatised for life by witnessing cross-breeding in action.

I could hear the kids chattering wildly – they weren’t far away.

I bonked the dog on the nose with the egg basket and started running.

To hell with all this hopping stuff.

The dog followed—hot on my fluffy bunny tail.

I was about halfway through the forest by now, the gate was almost in sight, but my basket was still fullish.  Stopped for breather behind a large tree.  Mr Dog grinned up at me, fangs glinting, tongue lolling, as he eyed my furry leg again.

I let rip with some choice language and once more bopped him lightly on the nose. Dashed to the next tree – heart pounding.

This was supposed to be a mythical, mystical, Easter surprise for the kids.

They were not supposed to find out that the Easter Bunny was in actual fact some old (okay – I was not so old then) auntie in a fusty smelling suit.

Started dropping the eggs on the pathway. In fact, I tossed a few at the dog in the hopes that they might distract him. What dog does not fancy a bit of chocolate? (Yes I know it’s bad for them – but I was desperate.)

But this dog was not to be distracted in the slightest.

Round about then there was a shout, one of the kids had spotted me. 

So much for them being afraid of a wo-man-sized bunny. They sprang into action and charged.

Now I had a dog a few metres behind me and kids gaining on me by the second. They were not one bit interested in the eggs – they just wanted to catch the Easter Bunny.

I decided discretion was the better part of valour, flung the whole basket over my shoulder and ran like hell. Skidded through the gate,  jumped into the getaway car – yelling, “Go, Go, Go!”

Thought I might actually die from laughing that day.

Happy Easter everybody.

Back in 1978 at Helderberg College

Saturday mornings we were allowed to “sleep late”. This merely meant nobody checked up whether you were at breakfast or not and there was no roll call during morning worship because… there was no morning worship. This was all well and good – but shite – it was a long time to lunch if you missed breakfast.

Know this would sound really odd to my kids now – knowing that their mother quite frequently goes from supper to supper without eating – but back then – missing a meal was a major deal.

So… what we used to do was appropriate a few slices of brown bread and some cheese on the Friday after supper.

Maybe I should go back to the beginning for those who were not there… at Helderberg College – the kids in the dorms did the work. You had to do x amount hours of work per week. Now, upon reflection, it was slave labour – but after a year at Worcester in the Ladies Seminary – it was heaven.

The girls at Helderberg College did kitchen and laundry duty. To begin with I complained like a stuck pig. Not fair that the boys had the cool jobs – like herding cows and riding around on the truck around campus. I mean who wanted to wash up a gajillion dishes and iron crappy clothes for all the kids in the hostels. Talk about stereotyping.

 Obviously I made enough noise because I was invited into the hallowed male world of truck riding… eeeergh… and they made me do garbage duty. Seriously gross – to this day – I hooch, heave and hold my nose when I have to swop black bags.

So we worked in the kitchen.

They had this cool dishwasher type thing – you stacked dirty plates on a rack and then hosed the hell out of them with a gun that shot serious bursts of water. Then they got shoved through a little house of piping hot water. Bit like a car wash really. Usually only matrics got that cool hosing-off job.

Racks of glasses, warm and steaming, had to be dried. I quite liked that – at least there was no grungy stuff involved. A select few were allowed into the cooler room – this was where the good stuff – like cheese – lurked.

 Really can’t remember the specifics – but suffice to say – we had cheese and brown bread.

On a Saturday morning we’d make toasted cheese. Marlene had an iron, I had an iron. We’d heat them both up. Make a cheese sarmie and clamp it between the two hot irons. Truly, don’t think I have ever tasted anything quite so delicious since then.

Kettles were also the privilege of Matrics – we were in Standard 8 or 9 at that stage. So we’d heat up water in our steam irons – and make lukewarm coffee to swill our sarnies down with. Bliss.

Heaven help us if we’d forgotten to iron our clothes first.