Piddle Pig and the refugees
Mamma was in Eva’s bedroom, with the storybook in her hand, coaxing her daughter to sleep. Her room was fuzzy pink and cosy. The thick pages of Piddle Pig glowed in bright primary colours. Eva knew Piddle Pig was yellow and his, chatterbox, frog friend was green and they had such fun and adventures.
Mamma made funny oinking noises for Piddle Pig and slapped the pages and jumped a little for the frog and Eva did too, copying her.
Mamma always knew when Eva was going to ask a question, because it was written on her serious little face.
‘Why do we hate refugees so much?’
Mamma always tried to be honest with her daughter. ‘Well, they’re not like us. Their women are so thin and beautiful and their men are so incredibly handsome.’
She turned a page. ‘See, Piddle Pig is in the wrong house and he’s eating all the food. Oink! Oink! Oink!’
Eva giggled. ‘That’s funny. Oink! Oink!’
Before turning the page, Mamma tapped the outraged features of the owner of the house. ‘See how angry the owner of the house is.’ She laughed with her daughter. ‘Now he’ll have no breakfast and have to go to the shop and buy more food. Oink! Oink!’
She slapped the cover. ‘See how the frog jumps. Jump! Jump!’
‘Jump! Jump!’ giggled Eva.
She tweaked her daughter’s nose. ‘And we don’t like refugees because they work so hard and don’t leave any work for anybody else. And their children are so pretty and well-behaved at school. They speak several languages. It’s a real shame.’
‘Jump, Jump, Jump into a dirty puddle,’ cried Eva, marching chubby thumb and index finger page-width between frog and puddle.
‘See how the little frog is all slimy and dirty in the dirty puddle. Frogs like that. Refugees have got no money and they stay in falling down houses.’
She turned the page. ‘Jump! Jump! Jump! The frog jumps to a clean stream.’
Eva nodded with deliberation and puckered her lips together before making a pronouncement. ‘Frogs like to live in a clean stream, Mamma.’
‘Yes, they do sweetness. That’s why little frogs Jump! Jump! Jump!’
Eva’s eyes got as big as Piddle Pigs. ‘What happens if the little frog stays in a dirty puddle?’
She smiled down at her daughter yawning, thumbing the last pages. ‘Well, it can’t jump anymore and it gets Sick! Sick! Sick! And just like the refugees, gees, gees, we send them to the sea, sea, sea…Now go to sleep and sweet dreams.’
‘Mamma when I grow up I want to be a refugee and see the sea, sea, sea.’