My morning was a gentle ordering of the mess left by past mayhem, following a few pages of Scruton's "The Aesthetics Of Music" over a Monster Cappucino: a breakfast cupful enough to fire up half the proletariat of this Wiltshire village.
We lunched at our local and secret pub along the valley, and later this afternoon Toyah leaves for a gig. She has filled her Sundays, days off from the theatre run, with rock gigs.
Beaton spent the night under the bed. He is moulting profusely. The top half of his coat has gone, and the bottom half remains thick and fluffy. He rather resembles a mis-coiffured poodle, an indignity for a creature as handsome as he. This morning, Beaton following me downstairs, the scullery doormat somewhat resembled a rabbit sewage farm. Disgusting, wicked little toad of a rabbit. "But you love him", says Toyah. "It's the ride to Shaftesbury", I reply. The six steps to a clean rabbit are these:
Beaton is a male rabbit.
Male rabbits spray and crap to mark their terrritory.
Castrated male rabbits do not mark to the same extent.
The vet is in Shaftesbury.
Any ride to Shaftesbury from this house goes to the vet.
Any ride to the vet is with Beaton.
Therefore, a ride to Shaftesbury equates with a rabbit-clean home. Of course, I would not deprive Bun of his nuts. And he is house trained to a high degree for a rabbit.
17.41
Toyah has left for her gig, and I am off to ProjeKctise...
"If we can't play away from the instrument, we can't play with the instrument."
