Over the weekend the kids dragged me to one of their favourite yearly events, the local hippie fair. It was quite entertaining to see the streets surrounding it clogged with black range rovers. But that’s the way we roll in our old, suburban age.
The youngest got me VERY cross before we even left home by bitching that she got $20 to spend at the fair last year so how come I was only giving her $15 this year. I swear, my children, spoiled freaking rotten.
I lost it a bit. I mean HONESTLY.
Then I decided perhaps I wasn’t in the best frame of mind … due to having skulled 4 champers at the Girls Night In the evening prior, so I simmered down and put on my happy face.
The kids ADORE the hippy fair. Especially the silk worms. Shudder. In fact, they insisted on going there first.
Guess who had to carry around the two grub-filled shoeboxes for the next two hours?
The fair is held at a local independent school with the most teeth-gnashingly enviable playground, complete with chooks.
There are tie-dyed stalls and earnest games for kids. It’s quite adorable.
The youngest went the active route with the coconut shy, jacobs ladder and lollipop pole.
The eldest ducked into a hessian tent to dig for gemstones.
They both got mud spatted panning for gold.
Then lined up in the blistering sun for henna tattoos.
And we all went home tired, cranky and poor.
Those hippies really know how to charge.
housegoeshome 
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