The one where I write to Peppa Pig …

Dear Peppa Pig,

You’re probably not used to adults writing to you, right? I mean, let’s face it, your target demographic is a little younger than your average 37 year old mother of 2. You’re more used to people with an age more in the single digits range …


I’ve been aware of you for a while. After all, for a 4 year old pig who likes jumping in muddy puddles and playing games, you sure have a crack marketing team, spreading your bing bong, somewhat whiny gospel plastered onto every conceivable thing your average toddler could desire. T-shirts, toys, even sunscreen has not escaped your porcine charms.

I’ve heard from friends about you. I was warned about the level of Peppa-diction that happens. I saw it with my own eyes … “Mummy, can I please watch Peppa?” (Seriously, those reading along at home and know what I’m talking about will have just read that IN PEPPA’S VOICE!), followed by the 5 minutes of glassy eyed, haunting silence as their child stared at the screen, watching a talking pig carry on a normal, humanesque life.

“This will never happen to me.”
A bold statement indeed. It was followed by some nods (at the time, I thought they were knowing, sympathetic nods, but now I realise it was a side effect of holding back uncontrollable laughter and loud exclamations of “BULLSHIT!” and knowing looks passed between my friends. I was determined not to let you enter our house (unless roasted with a side of applesauce), & for almost 2 years I succeeded in this. Then came this fateful trip …

It all began the morning after we arrived. Desperate to steal a few more z’s, I turned to the device of desperation – the TV. I switched it to the kids channel, lay on the couch and hoped it would be enough to occupy them whilst I napped beside them on the couch. (This was almost successful, although I did have to rescue a mobile phone from toilet swimming lessons. The phone did not recover). Then the fateful moment … the theme music came on. At once, they turned, and you appeared on the screen.

I recognised that glassy, vacant stare at once. The squeaky, babyish lilt of your piggy voice had lured my children into your hypnotic web, and entrapped them, just as thousands of toddlers before them have fallen. I had no option … immediately I searched for the remote control to stop the entrancing, addictive madness. Surely I could save my offspring from you, the Porky Predator.

Alas, the remote was nowhere to be found (it was later found stashed conveniently out of sight at toddler level). And so, to my dismay, I watched my children being sucked dangerously into the Peppa Cult, clamouring for the latest item with your face plastered on it , not to be rescued for a couple of years (or until they discover K3). I have heard my child clearly say your name after only 2 weeks of knowing you, whilst I struggle on to convince them my name isn’t “Daddy” or “*whine*” (although last week I was called “ball”, which I took rather personally)

Peppa, with this future torment in mind, I have a favour to ask. In return, I promise to not complain, to purchase whined for merchandise, to not roll my eyes at your irritating voice, and to not scream in frustration at the television at episodes with questionable, values. I promise to ignore the glassy eyed stares at the television when you come on screen. All this for one teeny favour… please?

Can you tell Schmemilie that it’s cool to poop? Thanks.

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