I was woken Easter Sunday morning by a small child shaking me.
'Pinkie-swear Mummy, pinkie-swear you're not the Easter Bunny.'
Hungover AF (we were in Hermanus, with friends, we'd celebrated a 50th the night before, there'd been a very excellent Taiwanese whiskey), I groped through my remaining brain cells.
Little finger crooked in my face, big earnest eyes - this was serious.
I examined my conscious, and made a hasty decision. Actually yes, I could pinkie-swear I wasn't the Easter Bunny.
Was I fluffy? No. Did I zoom around the world planting chocolate eggs? No. Was I a fictional being? No. Although the whole experience did feel a little out of body tbh.
I wrapped my little finger around hers and shook it.
'Pinkie-swear', I croaked.
The situation was nearly as awkward as a bell jar crammed with bunnies.
None-the-less, back home Easter happened in a far more adult and tasteful fashion.