An early evening a few days ago, and I'm browsing through my magazines on the bed when I hear "rrr'bit". As I look up I see a frog, (yes, a frog, groda, kokodede), hopping across the room! I have never been afraid of frogs, never felt anything towards them, except for pure hatred for the loud noise they make, but seeing one in a bedroom, and in light of the...unkind things I may have written about them before, I felt that this frog was here for revenge. As I screamed and stood up on the bed, I watched the little monster hop to safety in a corner under a chair.
In true fifties-dependent-feeble-housewife style, with no regard to my usual feminist, independent streak, I called Virgo and demanded he interrupt his evening with SQB to come and rescue me from my misery. For the longest 8 minutes ever, I sat, heart racing, fingers shaking as I tried to continue reading the magazine whilst checking whether the frog had moved, every two seconds. When Virgo finally arrived, he got the daughter of the family in the boys-quarters to remove the frog by placing it on a newspaper and covering it with a broom before releasing it into the garden. I swear I saw her smile a bit at me as she saw my terrified face.
As soon as the frog was safely outside again, I could laugh at my ridiculous hysteria. If I hadn't panicked, I could have called the girl instead of making Virgo interrupt his evening. And yet, even though I see the funny side of it all now, my heart jumps every time something flickers in the corner of my eye. After all, you never know when Kermit will strike again.