This morning, as a ‘memory’ my phone flashes up a picture I’ve taken of a bunny.
Lovely!
Except it isn’t.
This isn’t a nice, happy living bunny. It’s a horribly deformed dead bunny.
In fact, I took the picture of the bunny in the summer… when we found it in the middle of the lawn, dying from what appeared to be an extreme form of myxomatosis… puss oozing out of both of its eyes.
I didn’t take the photo because I’m some kind of necro-bunny-fetishist. I took it because we’d seen a few bunnies like this and Lizzie and I thought it might be a good idea to send a picture of them to a bunny expert… in case a bunny plague was about to blight the land.
Of course, I never did send the photo to a bunny expert. A) because we don’t know any bunny experts and B) because I forgot.
But here, as a reminder of what I’d failed to do, is a picture of the horrific bunny… presented as a precious memory by my iPhone and floating dreamily across the screen in semi soft-focus. The only thing missing is some jangly, nostalgic guitar music – to accompany the grotesque image – perhaps Peter Gabriel’s Solsbury Hill or Sixpence None The Richer’s Kiss Me.
P. D. Clifton 
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