"To the left of the archway there is a two-roomed cottage comprising the guest room and Dad’s office. It is a thatched, brick structure inclined to be porous to wildlife. I open the door and wait. Nothing launches itself at my ankles, so I make my way to the bed and sit down, feet drawn up onto the bed. Big H brings me a clean towel, then stands around surveying the place. “Frogs,” she observes at last. As my eyes become accustomed to the gloom, I see what she means. The place is smothered in large, foam-nesting tree frogs, white as alabaster. They are hanging from the mosquito net, glued to the walls, attached to the door, hopping across the floor. Later, I find that if I drink half a box of South African wine and take a sleeping pill, a frog will come attached to my cheek while I sleep and will stay there unnoticed until morning. “How lucky for you,” Mum says. “You can write about that in one of your awful books."
- Alexandra Fuller
Cocktail Hour under the Tree of Forgetfulness
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