Kissing the frog

It's frog season again, that silly time of year when love is in the air and frogs are everywhere.

Down the road on Palolem beach some of the frogs seem already to have metamorphosed into tanned handsome young princes. They strut about on the sand or they stroll along the edge of the water, holding hands with girls who kiss them again.

In my garden the ugly ones still linger, warts and all. Come dusk and they cheerfully hop into the house to try their luck, croaking what sounds suspiciously like 'kiss me quick, stupid'.

A little one hopped up to my bed and gazed up at me with its little bright eyes. Another leaped down from the rafters as I stood cooking, balancing itself for a second on the edge of my hot kadai like a champion diver, before leaping off again. Yet another hid in a pair of shorts that were hanging on the line, and then jumped out onto me when I tried to wear them. There's a frog invariably in the loo, swimming around lazily in the pot (luckily I have a second, sealed loo). And another hidden among the coffee mugs on the kitchen shelf.

To all these hopeful suitors my response is the same. I scream. I take a broom and try to shove them out. I run out to catch hold of some kind soul who will help a woman in distress.

But the frogs don't give up. Every night they're back in the house, croaking their serenade.

I think I will have to kiss one of them soon.

Help!