Last night we had an Easter egg hunt. Despite the fact that it’s over two weeks to Easter, it was 8pm, and we are all in our mid-twenties to early thirties.
C roped us around to her house, luring us with the promise of chocolate eggs and a braai to follow. After one or two glasses of wine, chili poppers in the oven and with three torches between us, six of us – two journalists, a philosophy student, one programmer, an engineer, one communications type and a get-fit-lose-weight-now specialist – clambered into the flowerbeds, rustled hedges and turned over pots like the seasoned egg-hunting professionals we are.
Sometimes you just need to just act like children again. For fifteen glorious minutes we giggled and shrieked and fell over roots and compared hauls – glad to be five years old again, where the biggest worry in the world was what cartoon was going to come on next.
After that, we retired to our normal – admittedly, more grown-up but still fun – selves. We drank wine, moaned over boyfriends and stalkers and work things, discussed current affairs and debated hot topics. All the while, nibbling the edges of marshmallow eggs and sucking on the smaller chocolate ones until the caramel center broke through.