June 13, 1921
I have been visiting the parental pile today and checking up on little brother. My father has dug him a most pleasant pond under an old willow tree which he shares with other pond life. Daddy has become quite the lily cultivator. Indeed, he is building a good little side-line business selling appropriate water lilies to other parents who have found themselves in similar circumstances.
My mother made a strange comment today: she thinks I have grown. Ridiculous, when you think about it; fairies are diminutive and are not known for having to order Gossamer XXL. But it did bother me, I have to admit, and this evening I de-gossamered and checked myself in front of the mirror. For just one moment, I did half wonder whether my naval is a bit higher up the mirror than it was previously, but it is probably just my imagination. Dismiss it, crumple it up, and throw it in the bin; there are more important things for a fairy to worry about, like my brother.
It is difficult to work out whether he is happy or not. Mostly he sits on a rock or lily pad and croaks a bit, or he catches the odd passing insect. This is not exactly communicative, but it is, more or less, what all the other frogs are doing. I should point out that the rest of the frogs are real ones, not accidently manufactured ones. Well, except Prince Eric, who my mother found when she kissed the wrong frog good night by mistake one evening. Prince Eric was graciously grateful and was most polite to my parents while he awaited the proverbial crystal carriage.
My mother, on the other hand, having found herself glued to the lips of a thirty-three-year-old hunk, spent the next few hours going alternative shades of red and blue and took to fanning herself with a tea towel. I have to admit that Eric is a bit of a keen old sheik, with luscious lips and muscles in all the right places, but he is not the best person to be stuck on; Eric is not exactly into girls, if you get my drift, which may explain why he spent quite so many years wearing the frog suit.
Meanwhile, frog-snogging is not getting the results hoped for for my brother. Mummy has been queuing up quite a little list of local girls and bribing them into puckering up for the amphibian, but it is not working. The school has explained that the curse may be very specific, and it could either need a kiss from exactly the right person or the right set of circumstances: moon at a certain angle, amount of dew on the leaves, that sort of thing. Now I am working as a fairy, I do those kind of curses all the time; the more challenging you make the curse, the more you can charge for it, you see. When I think of some of the convoluted terms and conditions I build into curses, they would be impossible to guess.
Of course, there is still the issue of how he became accidentally cursed in the first place. On that count I am at least a little off the hook. It turns out that the new wand my parents had given me was actually an antique model. On the upside, antique wands are very sought after and this was a really nice prezzie from the parental team. On the downside, they sometimes come with half a spell or curse still stuck in them from the last user, and they should really be discharged properly first in a safe place by a qualified Wanda (the odd little gnomes that make wands). The chances are that the last fairy owner wilted (a fairy term for pushing up the daisies) halfway through her last curse and it was left in the wand. My brother got it full in the snout as soon as I turned it on.
I have been working through some of the more obvious curses, but I don’t think it is one of them. The old school is very good about all this. At the annual alumni meet up, they always supply a small tank with vegetation so certain family members can attend. It was quite full last time. I am sure there is a lesson that is being missed somewhere along the line, but then with my photo-opportunity mishaps I tend to keep my pretty little mouth shut on contentious issues
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