Quiddish

They could have asked for a fancy bike or a pretty swing to play in the garden. But no.

Instead, they picked up the tattered tennis ball, two garden brooms, some milk crates and there they spent the hour playing Quiddish à la Harry Potter.

"Hey, why are you riding your broom the wrong way round?"  EggEgg instructed Cola on the fine art of broom riding.

As in all serious play, there are proper rules.
"If you drop your broomstick on the grass, that means you have fallen from the sky. Like the movie."

And in earnest competitiveness too,
"I'm Ron!" says EggEgg.
"I'm Draco!" says Cola.
"Mami, how many points have I scored now?"

Up and down the garden path they flew, chasing after the tennis ball ("the golden snitch") and the half-deflated soccer ball ("the quaffle").  They have invented for themselves such a complicated scoring system that I can't even keep up.  I roared with laughter.


Sunshine and love.  Like plants in the garden, that's all children need in order to grow into beautiful human beings.