Rowan and Jude are 6 and 3.
Normally, I have no trouble with 6 and 3. But Rowan has proved a mountain to move during recent webcam sessions. I fire him quips and repartee that would sustain a Vegas career and he just looks at me as if I haven't spoken. I turn up for the camera wearing outrageous Batman costumes, all sorts of stuff.
Nothing. It is entirely possible he thinks I am an idiot.
But two weeks ago, Rowan mentioned he had been doing magic tricks. Hah! Magic tricks are what I do best. So, last Sunday, when he came on the screen, I was standing there with two of my very finest tricks ready to blow his mind.
Unfortunately, I underrated his mind.
"Because Gran reads so much, her head is full to the brim with books," I told him. "So I am going to pull one of those books out of her head so she doesn't get headaches any more."
I then pushed a book up my seated wife's back with my left knee until it appeared above her head.
"See, no hands! Book is coming out of head!" I screeched.
"You're sliding it up her back," said Rowan.
There was nothing for it, I had to do a proper magic trick.
Reverso, an illusion of almost Houdinish wizardry. Even some of my grown-up friends cannot fathom this trick. I told Rowan I had three cards, two black tens and a red nine, and I would turn them into three black tens. I have always done this trick on a table, so when I held the cards up to the webcam, I had them facing me. Which meant Rowan was peering utterly confused at the other side wondering why I had asked him to confirm there were two black 10s and a red nine.
My wife, who I guess technically was my assistant, most magicians have them, whispered to me that I was doing the trick back to front and that Rowan was only 6, so I hurriedly turned the cards around, got him to name them, thrust the cards together, then fanned them out again. Two black 10s were revealed and the third card was turned over.
"What is the third card?" I asked, triumph welling in every syllable.
"A red nine," he replied.
Bored. I turned it over.
Another black 10.
"How did you DO that?" he gasped, his admiration glowing like a steam train's hot coals. He has never paid me a compliment as big as this. I had finally done something that was intellectually beyond his grasp.
"I will show you when you come here," I said.
"Great!" he said.
And I will.
I went to the Sally Army Princes St store on Monday and bought a box of magic tricks. I have either 70 or 57 to learn by October 4 - the box said there were 57 inside but the accompanying booklet said there were 70. It seemed churlish to bring it up with management given that the box had cost only two dollars. But the reason I bought this particular box was because the booklet boasted a magic bag, and I have confounded many children over the years with a magic bag.
Unfortunately, when I opened the box the bag was gone. A shame. A magic bag can turn a piece of broccoli into a scorched almond. Truly.
But a friend is on the job. She says it will be made out of velvet, a perfect powerful fabric. The last bag I made, out of newspaper, was ripped to shreds by the child looking for more lollies. There is even loose talk of a cape, with my name, Bizarro, inscribed. The bag will be my curtains-brought-down finale on October 4. The pressure is diminishing. The grandchildren will respect Weird Grandad after all. And THAT will be magic.
• Roy Colbert is a Dunedin writer.
