Yesterday afternoon as I waited on the platform at the newly refurbished
Rabbits must be the 'pet du jour' (no Fatal Attraction puns meant) as my friend's daughter has a smoky gray rabbit called (not surprisingly) Smoky.
Train rabbit was 8 months old, and as a seasoned train traveller (as informed by Mr Bunny once we boarded and he sat next to us) train rabbit sat contentedly on Mr Bunny's shoulder for the entire trip.
What a huge difference from our most memorable after footy train trip last season, when Mummy J, young Gabby and I were trapped, sardine like, between two groups of very loud and rude youths. The volume made their shouts difficult to ignore, but I had trouble keeping up with the topic of conversation, interspersed as they were with more swear words that I've heard on a union picket line.
It was clear that these young men had definitely NOT been to my father's school of appropriate language. My father was raised in a very strict methodist household, where liquor shall not pass thy lips, nor language not contained in the bible, or at least the Queen's Christmas message. Whenever my father wanted to express his anger or displeasure in front of his impressionable daughters, the worst word he used was 'bunnies'. When 'bunnies' came out, we knew there was trouble. He didn't need to say anything else, or even raise his voice. Dad never hit one of his 4 daughters during our upbringing. 'Bunnies' was enough for us to know to keep quiet and lay low.
Very different 'bunny' train trips indeed ... and I'm glad that my grandmother didn't survive to hear the Queen's annus horibilis.