The puddle immediately trickled down to the attic and, as luck would have it, landed in and next to the potato barrel.
The ceiling was dripping, and since the attic floor has also got its share of cracks,
little yellow drops were leaking through the ceiling and onto the dining table, between a pile of stockings and books.
I was doubled up with laughter, it was such a funny sight.
There was Mouschi crouched under a chair, Peter armed with water, powdered bleach and a cloth, and Mr. van Daan trying to calm everyone down.
The room was soon set to rights, but it's a well-known fact that cat puddles stink to high heaven.
The potatoes proved that all too well, as did the wood shavings, which Father collected in a bucket and brought downstairs to burn.
Poor Mouschi! How were you to know it's impossible to get peat for your box? Anne
THURSDAY, MAY 11, 1944
Dearest Kitty, A new sketch to make you laugh: Peter's hair had to be cut, and as usual his mother was to be the hairdresser.
At seven twenty-five Peter vanished into his room, and reappeared at the stroke of seven-thirty,
stripped down to his blue swimming trunks and a pair of tennis shoes.
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