Duftwolke

Those tiny sample bottles of perfumes and eaux de cologne are irresistible to children, and that little girl, the one who is as sharp as a tack, is no different.

I have just settled into my favorite chair, my nose in a book, a glass of gently iced cocoa by my side ... when a scented cloudscape of immense proportions envelops me. After a hefty sneeze, both nostrils attempt in vain to squeeze themselves shut (did our distant ancestors ever have that capability and if so, when did we lose it?). Another sneeze.

"Gesundheit!"

She stands there, grinning from ear to ear. "Guess what?"

"What ..."

To my utter amusement, she hunches over, rubs her hands together, chuckles, and with a theatrical voice says, "I have discovered a magic potion."

Somebody has been reading too many Asterix and Obelix books, I think. Then I begin to worry. "You didn't drink any of this potion, did you?"

I get the look, the one that a child gives an adult at such a moment.

"You don't drink it! You put some on your finger and say the magic word!"

"Oh! And what's the magic word then?"

Perching on her tiptoes, she stretches both hands up and out towards me. "Simsalabim!"

"Aäckk!" I jump out of the chair and in a funny voice say, "you have turned me into the tickle monster!"

Eyes wide and with a squeal of delight, my godchild twitches, turns, and hightails it up the staircase. With fingers extended, I lope after her making slobbery monster noises. In between her squawks I sing, "Tingle, tingle is my name and tickling, tickling is my game."