Why the ‘Easter Bunny’ and not the ‘Easter Chicken’?
The weekend of chocolate is behind us… the rabbits of the world united to bring the little-uns a stack of sweet stuff. Obesity levels in the UK may be worrying but at least the little blighters had a smile on their face on Sunday. Dentists and parents rejoice!
Maybe I’m just bitter. The days of running around our backyard trying to find the sparkling treasures is long gone. As an Aussie child, the challenge was:
1. To find them before the dog did
2. To find them before the pet kangaroo devoured them
3. To beat my greedy siblings in the chocolate war
4. To do it FAST – before the hot summer sun melted the little blighters
5. To hide them again before Dad devoured them
6. To hunt for the bunny and his sack of goodies before he reached the outskirts of our farm
Our family Easter holidays were never the same after my darling dad took my sisters out on their last ‘rabbit hunt’. It was a family tradition that gave mum the chance to ‘do the deed’ and spread Easter egg magic through the garden. On the Easter of 1997, Dad took the hunt to extremes. Road kill is commonplace in rural Australia, as are dairy farmers with a tendency for practical jokes.
One rabbit carcass, an “oh no, it’s Easter Bunny!” and a few strategically placed eggs later, we had two traumatised little ladies on our hands. Gawd help us when they next go Santa Claus hunting.
I’ve never had an Easter without sun. Last year I spent it Scandinavian style on the island of Gotland, Sweden. This year I explored the sights and sounds of London. As I watched my workmates head off towards their weekend breaks, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d made the wrong decision. Luckily, horrendous traffic reports and tales of departure lounge traumas soon eased my jealousy levels. Hopefully, your holiday wrapped you in a warm blanket of chocolate and relaxation. Something tells me the airport staff didn’t fare quite so well.
Museum staff also copped the brunt of the school holiday stress syndrome. In a bid to unleash the tourist within, I braved the V&A Museum, the National Science Museum, Harrods (never again!) and Regent’s Park. Now I know where they hide the pint sized, demanding little Londoners. It’s the best contraception possible. I’ve been put of children for life.
The Darwin Centre at the National History Museum is a place to seek respite and to ogle a giant squid. I strongly recommend you head down there to marvel at tiny little animal carcasses preserved in glass jars. The flesh-eating beetles are also a sight. I’ll steer clear of the battered calamari rings from now on though – I don’t want that giant squid’s papa hunting me down for revenge.
Speaking of flesh, ‘Bodies – The Exhibition’ is in town. Wait for it science junkies… this one’s a corker! More preserved bodies than you can poke a stethoscope at. I’m talking actual full-body specimens and organs here gents. I had problems stomaching the giant squid… this one’s bound to be interesting. I’ll be heading down to the Earls Court Exhibition Centre on the weekend – full gory reports to come.
Maybe it will help motivate me for my post Easter gym assault. Maybe Britain has found the solution to the obesity problem; introduce inner organ gore and scare the living hell out of the wobbly masses.
