The Bunny Suicides
When I stopped travelling by train and elected to drive my car to work (a mere 214 mile round trip, selfishly burning up the ozone layer every inch of the way), I knew there would be a price to pay. And it is this: the wildlife of the entire south of England – rabbits, badgers, pigeons, crows and deer – all queuing up to fling themselves under the wheels of my car.
Contrary to what you think about me, I hate killing things, and there’s nothing worse than that ker-thump as another cute fluffy animal wraps its innards around your axle. My nerves are utterly frayed by suicidal rabbits throwing themselves under my wheels. I’ve actually had two that have passed straight under my car completely unscathed, and are still sat there as the following vehicle bears down on them. They’re probably stunt rabbits, and it’s something for them to do because they don’t have television.
It’s dreadful, especially when you’re on a busy road – you can’t slow down, you can’t swerve, you just head relentlessly onwards towards Mr Big Ears, blind-folded and enjoying a last cigarette simply because he doesn’t have the means to stick his head in the gas oven.
I mean, for God’s sake, countryside abounds. Mile after square mile of it, with trees, hedges, lovely grassy bits and as much poo as they can eat. And what do they do? Sit in the middle of the road and wait for the Grim Squeaker* to carry them away.
Come to think of it, I’d be terminally depressed if my life consisted of a) living down a hole b) relentless, never-ending sex and c) a diet of grass and your own poo.
* (c) Pterry Pratchett.