Two puppets for luck

I went to St Faith kindy two days ago. There was sunlight on tile, cold cement, but the warmth of a few hundred kids.

"Why is your hair purple?" One of them asked.

It was beautiful to see the kids colouring, talking, jumping up and down on the little coloured chairs at little coloured tables. I was like that once, I thought. Nothing mattered to me, nothing to worry about. The most I needed to think about was What colour should my sky be? I chose blue. Someone else - either Naomi or Cassy - coloured theirs pink.

Perhaps it is the sight of such a pink sky, over a field of pink flowers, that imprinted that everlasting repulsion for pink that I have; that I can't exactly explain.

There were no puppets that day. We wrote a rough script for our puppet show, to be held in the Children's Ward on Easter. At which hospital I'm not really sure. I am to be the Daddy puppet. A strange reversal of roles, I'm sure.

There are still wooden spoons. And there are still discipline chairs.

I sat on one of them, trying to remember how I felt, years back.

And you know what? I found that I can't really remember. We all hold on to our childhoods - the world wasn't so cynical once upon a time, because we weren't aware of it. How nice it would be to go back again.

There was sunlight on tile, cold cement, but the warmth of a few hundred kids. I left that day feeling strange, a fading reminder of how the world seemed to me at age 4.

It was beautiful.