Where I live there are few celebrities. No paparazzi are stationed outside the Holiday Inn by the cricket ground waiting to snap an actor getting out of a limousine. Pop stars are not spotted in Aldi purchasing a bottle of sparkling white and a bag of frozen mince. Minor royals do not cite the local Pizza Express in their unlikely alibis.
Yes, there’s that bloke off of Bargain Hunt and there’s Toyah. Jon Snow went up north to The Wall and hasn’t been seen since. More famous and reclusive than them all is Darius. Darius rarely leaves his compound and is notoriously reluctant to sign autographs. He’s been known to chew any paper thrust under his nose and might have nibbled the occasional finger. As far as I know he has not and has never been to Pizza Express. Neither here or in Woking.
So it was a shock when I learned that Darius, the world’s biggest bunny, had been stolen. He reaches over four feet at full stretch. In these truth defying times it is reassuring to know that this has been verified by one of the last defenders of fact-based reality: the Guinness World Records. There are numerous theories as to who or what is behind the crime. A jealous bunny-breeding rival who has had him stolen to order, a down on their luck furrier or, more plausibly, a very determined fox with a screwdriver.
I feel I should warn the thieves, and they are very likely to be reading this, that there is no value in Darius being used for breeding purposes. Apparently he is too old. I feel that it was indiscreet of his owner, Annette, to release such intimate medical details of a local celebrity to the press.
I confess I have a prurient interest in what a big ass retired rabbit does all day. Does he wake up early, hop down to the local newsagent to pick up a paper and a pint of milk, take a quick nap followed by an afternoon of re-runs of Poirot on Freeview and then a remote-learning class of conversational French provided by a further education college in the evening? Also carrots. Sacks and sacks of carrots. To be honest, that does sound more like my kind of retirement plan than that of a Flemish giant. Except for the carrots.
While I was speculating idly and shaking my head at the absurd idea of a comfortable retirement I heard the sound of sawing and hammering coming from the across the street. Ugh, I thought, someone is starting early on their DIY. When I nosily peered out of the window I could see a man from the house opposite assembling some kind of wooden structure in their garden. It’s at least five feet tall, has a door on one side and is being given a slate tiled roof. It looks very cosy. The tiled roof is a nice touch. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s almost like they are building a large hutch.
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