Last night was not easy for the Easter Bunny. It never is.
He has spent the year, as he always does, selflessly and elflessly making chocolate egg after chocolate egg. Some he places in mugs, possibly due to misunderstanding what the phrase “a mug of chocolate” actually means. Some, usually bought by boyfriends during their first year of courtship, are the size of an unexploded WWII bomb. Some are in the shape of rabbits, like some weird voodoo-doll of himself.
All of them contain about the same amount of actual chocolate as one Cadbury’s Button.
He has to predict coming trends, like a toy-store manager organising his Christmas stock in February, so that he can have Harry Potter/Shrek/Lincoln packaging available upon demand. And last night, just as darkness fell in the Far East, he began his journey. He has no sleigh, and no reindeer to pull one even if he had. He literally has to hop it.
It’s a tight schedule, keeping just ahead of sunrise right across the world, but he usually keeps in time, at least until one o’clock in the morning.
Then the clock goes forward. Santa doesn’t have to deal with crap like this.
After that he has to go like the clappers, and not in the way that that phrase is usually associated with rabbits.
And he always gets it done. Eggs are left at the foot of beds, in gardens for Egg Hunts, under sleeping hens just to startle farmers.
And after all of this effort, half of the children in the world do not believe in him.
This is quite galling. But, as he sat in his warren this morning sipping his breakfast time carrot-juice and looking forward to a long afternoon’s snooze in front of the football (it’s Aston Villa v Liverpool, it won’t be hard) he reflected that life could be worse.
He might not be as popular as Santa, but at least he is better known than the Halloween Gerbil, who delivers pumpkins, the Spring Equinox Parrot, who delivers springs (no, I don’t know why either), and the June Bank Holiday Aardvark, who delivers rain.