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which appeared to make it even more livid. We all just stared at this astonishing performance,
unable to tear our eyes from the seething reptile body part.
'Aww,' said Maurice eventually, 'can we keep it?'
I realised there and then that resistance was utterly futile.
The rabbit, to no-one's particular surprise, stayed. I always knew it wouldn't be released
back into the wild anyway; I could never imagine a moment where Natalie would be able to
let it go. The thing was tiny and the reason why rabbits have such a well-earned reputation
for levels of procreation is that they're just not very good at staying alive in the first place.
This rabbit in particular seemed especially under pressure, what with both cats sitting on top
of its makeshift cage most of the day, oh, and because it only had three feet. It seemed strange
that none of us had spotted this flaw for the first four days that we had it, very strange indeed,
especially Natalie who had held it quite often. Like I say, strange.
As it was staying, the thing needed accessories like a hutch and a 'run'. Natalie, taking my
resignation as enthusiasm, had set about finding every bit of spare wood and chicken wire in
the place, dumping them by the hammock in which I was dozing and telling me to 'get on
with it'. My history in the woodwork department is brief and inglorious; I once made an egg
rack but made the holes so big that it could only hold ostrich eggs; my attempts at shelving
are notorious for their quirky angles and brief staying power. In short, I am not a handyman.
Necessity has meant that I've improved a little bit over the years, but I enter into these things
begrudgingly, short-tempered and foul-mouthed.
Perhaps because I was embarking on some misguided, badly planned Heath Robinson-esque
rabbit run, the tension between Natalie and I had mounted; especially when I insisted that it
shouldn't be called a 'run' but a 'limp'. All couples argue, or at least they should otherwise it's
unnatural - the important thing is to keep those arguments private, not just away from the
children but away from old friends. And their children. Who may have popped over to France
for the Easter weekend.
We've known John and Rebecca for a long time, they are good friends, but it's fair to say that
they had never seen Natalie and me when she is in full treating-me-like-staff mode and I'm
stroppily arguing with her, with the wood, with drills, screws, limb-challenged bunny rabbits
and every bloody thing in the world. It must have been an uncomfortable few hours for them,
not knowing whether to referee, disappear for a bit or just get back in the car and drive home.
It was brutal, but by dinner time I had magically made a run that was solid and unlikely to
collapse in a light breeze. It was safe for the rabbit to lollop about in and also secure enough
to keep the cats and other sundry predators out. I was, to be honest, quite proud of it; Natalie
was very grateful, and John and Rebecca just relieved that Natalie and I hadn't actually killed
each other. It was, though I say it myself, a thing of beauty.
So you can imagine my annoyance the following morning to find that the rabbit had only
gone and bloody died! The ungrateful little bastard! Most of Easter Saturday I'd spent build-
