There’s no pleasing some. We booked our summer holidays and he gets his own room, on full-board, with all expenses paid, for two weeks, and there’s not even a flicker of a smile.
Instead, he’s got a face as long as, well, as long as his ears.
You can’t read their thoughts. Maybe it’s love, or maybe she just wants to kill me.
To be fair our pet rabbit rarely changes his facial expression.
And when I say rarely, I only have it on our Isaac’s authority that his expression changes at all.
“Rockta really enjoys playing football, doesn’t he?” our 11-year-old son commented the other day. “Just look at his face.”
I looked out of the back window. Rockta the rabbit (as the kids named him) looked as impassive as ever. And he wasn’t playing football. He was doing something else to the ball. A manoeuvre that you won’t find in the coaching manual, though it may appear in the Kama Sutra. He’s a lonely rabbit.
It may explain his expressionless face.
I get the same look from my wife whenever I ask for something. You can’t read their thoughts. Maybe it’s love, or maybe she just wants to kill me.
The eyes give nothing away. Nor does her twitching nose.
Or her whiskers.
Anyway, we’re heading off on holiday and I sometimes wonder if it is the rabbit who gets the best deal.
He gets booked into a pet hotel! Is this a mark of a civilised society or just another excuse to wring more money out of the modern family.
Trying to find a suitable establishment to house your pet rabbit is a First World problem.
Pet hotels are surely a modern invention. I assume in the olden days, when people went on holiday for a fortnight, they ate their pet rabbits before heading off. Seems reasonable.
While our Rockta’s living it up in his private pet shop hutch with, presumably, carrots and pina coladas on tap, we’re staying at home.
No exotic holidays abroad for us. As I’ve mentioned before, my wife is a jittery traveller. She always fears the worst and hates flying. With terror alert levels rising across Europe she decided early on we’d be holidaying in England. It’d be safer.
She booked us into Alton Towers!
Sod’s Law dictated that the theme park would have its safety questioned after we’d booked up.
We would then be heading from Alton Towers to Cornwall. What could possibly go wrong there?
Well, since we were going to Cornwall so the boys could enjoy their new-found love of surfing, it was no surprise to find this week’s news dominated by a surfer being attacked by a shark.
A theme park where no-one wants to go on the rides and surfing where no one wants to go in the sea! Next year I’ll book the holiday.
Two weeks on a bed of straw and all the carrots you can eat. “I’ll take the penthouse hutch, thanks.”