It's that time of year when the deepest-thinking of our columnists take time off to rest their hard-working and insightful brains. So it falls to unsung production grunts like me to fill the spaces that are normally the preserve of only the most erudite of journalistic practitioners.
Honoured, for sure, at being asked to fill this space, I thought that this offered the chance to employ the two phrases used by regular columnists, the use of which I have always envied.
The first is the important-sounding "It seems to me ...", which I'd always thought nonsensical seeing as the vital thought is attributed to no one else and must, therefore, be the property of the writer.The other is "Therein lies the rub ...", which is a ruse used by columnists to lure you into thinking they are arguing a certain point, only to find that they are arguing much the opposite.
Imagine my disappointment when I learnt that the subject for this column was to be the Easter Bunny. How much erudition, and reaching for deep thoughts, can one conjure up about the Easter Bunny? "It seems to me ..."
Like all our religious festivals, Easter has been hijacked by the commercial mob. From about six weeks before Easter the shops display row after row of bunnies, all wrapped in gold and silver foil, and gazing blankly at rows of chocolate eggs shaped as hens.
Forget about redemption, reconciliation, forgiveness.
Instead, it's all about guilt. Who would dare fob off on their kids eggs that are smaller than those the kids have eyed in the shops the six weeks before? A brave parent indeed. Or a parent who has the gall to blame the Easter Bunny.
When I was a child, we had high expectations of the Easter Bunny, and I well recall my younger brother raging at the poor creature, upset that the animal had dared to deliver eggs not entirely to his taste.The Easter Bunny, with Father Christmas and the Tooth Mouse, were the trinity of hope in our household. I know other families had a "tooth fairy", but we kept it believable with a mouse.
Father Christmas was the giver sine pari of this triumvirate of charity, this trio of beings whose work, unseen overnight, brought such joy to us all. (Incidentally, to this troika I am tempted to add President Cyril Ramaphosa, although his record of deliverance of the goodies - while we sit back and wait for him to do the hard graft overnight - is still not quite of a standard to warrant inclusion.)
Father Christmas was top of the pile, although the Tooth Mouse merited warmer recognition for dealing in cold cash. But so easily are children, and nations, deceived that we preferred the sweet stuff to hard coinage.
Sadly, the Easter Bunny brought out the worst in us kids. I had a sister, who, long after our eggs had been guzzled, would produce a corner of a rabbit's ear from the back of her wardrobe, and we'd have to look on, pleading in vain, as she savoured it.
Anyway, one's never too old to learn, and it was for this column that I found out that the Easter Bunny is, in fact, a hare, which differs from a rabbit but not so much as we hope Ramaphosa differs from Jacob Zuma.Not that the Easter Bunny is faultless. I well remember an Easter long ago when our eggs were mouldy and inedible. My mom complained to Beacon, and some weeks later they delivered a sack of soft sweet dummies, which was hardly a suitable replacement, but which said it all, I thought.
About that bitter experience, which I have not forgotten, or forgiven, it seems to me ... But, alas, the years have passed ... and therein lies the rub...