There’s a mystery sweeping through London… in the form of a rabbit.
Who is it, what is it, where is it…?
Trust me, I’m as confused as you. I first came across the mystery in a magazine article. I didn’t think any more of it until I went for a meeting at the National Theatre last week and it came up in conversation. I daren’t say any more – you’ll need to check it out for yourself.
Here’s what TimeOut magazine had to say:
Follow the Rabbit
“Find yourself heading out on the town without a clue as to what you’ll do? No more. For a real nocturnal adventure, let the bunny from iRabbit.org lead the way. The workings of iRabbit are shrouded in secrecy, but he or she organises happenings prompted by communication from visitors to the website. These sometimes occur in theatres (the Battersea Arts Centre has hosted several), but not always. There was an adventure on Valentine’s Day, there’s another planned for Halloween and there may be more in between – the current, very cryptic project is at www.irabbit.org/ntt. If you’re intrigued, email firstname.lastname@example.org to ‘talk to rabbit’.”
I emailed ‘Rabbit’ on Monday and have found myself entangled in a series of email correspondence, clues and mobile messages. I’m well and truly hooked – Sherlock Holmes, eat your detective heart out.
My associations with rabbits haven’t been so good in the past. A classmate caught and skinned one if front of me on a school camp in rural Australia – (forget marshmallows over a campfire – the little Aussies cook wildlife!). As I watched the charred little body go up in a puff of smoke I vowed never to dine on bunny flesh. The lads on our farm used to make a habit of ‘bunny bashing’. They’d load their guns, lace up their heavy-duty boots and pile into the back of a rusty Ute. The less said about that the better. I’ve always hated the sound of gunfire and on the one occasion I accompanied them, I apparently ruined the hunting expedition with my tears.
I once had a white rabbit with crazy red eyes. He was a happy, twitching little sod – until the fox got him. After that, I stuck to guinea pigs – they bred faster than the foxes could devour them.
Five years later, a boyfriend bought me two bunnies… Strider and Pippin. Strider turned out to be a bundle of black psycho fur and Pippin a sex crazed beast with a taste for my neighbour’s marigolds. It took them 2 months to desecrate the back garden, cover the grass with a mound of stinky brown pellets before deciding to move to pastures new. By this time I was a city-dwelling university student. Rabbits on the run in suburbia are neither amusing nor fun – not when you’re late for work, clad in heels and trying to catch the little blighters.
Pippin never made it home. I can only hope he made it back to bunny Hobbiton rather than the doggy jaws of Mordor. Strider however, returned home to pursue my new pint-sized bunny Frodo. Apparently Strider had a fetish for tiny balls of orange fluff. Little Frodo was indeed the cutest thing I’d ever seen. I loved him instantly.
Frodo lived for 2 days. Strider took his adoration one step too far and suffocated him in a disastrous sexual assault – bunny style. I cried for days and vowed I’d never be a bunny mummy again.
Unfortunately, my dear Aunt didn’t hear this promise and before I knew it she was ‘easing my pain’ with a new rabbit. Enter Bilbo… a thumping white beast with a love for Strider. Never before had I seen such blatant male love. The constant rumbling in the bushes proved too energetic for our poor garden and the rampant rabbits were shipped back to the farm and released in the scrub behind our house. I’m sure they still live there – happily ever after, the only gays in the rabbit-hood.
Anyway, check out the London rabbit mystery – I’m sure you’ll have more luck.