I suppose I might as well admit it. I am a little less heartbroken these days – because I have spent the last week and a half with the perfect male. He never grabs the remote, he is happy to eat any old thing, he looks at me with the most adoring eyes and he never, ever interrupts. He has listened to my Secrets CD without making a single negative comment ( a massive feat) and was very supportive during the duvet crisis. He is warm, funny, and, not that I want to give away the secrets of the boudoir, lovely to cuddle up to at night.
On the downside, he is really a tincy bit whiffy, and the eating anything bit encompasses trying to nibble the cable on the children’s Wii (bought by their doting uncle, I wouldn’t have got one in a million) and a bit of Child Two’s arm.
Yes, he is none other than the lovely Dill, my glamorous friend B’s rabbit. As you know, I was braced for a terror and, while he does have some problems in sticking rigorously to his rabbit diet – and who wouldn’t, his food is rock hard little pellets that really don’t look that different from the rock hard little pellets that come out of him at the other end – in all other respects he has been the ideal guest. Even when staying for a few days at Mr X’s, he behaved impeccably, possibly because he was shut in the bathroom. Not that I was hoping he would eat X’s comfy chairs or ravage the wedding china, oh no, because I am sooooooo not like that.
It was with a heavy heart that I handed Dilly back to B, when she stopped in briefly between returning from the South of France and jetting off for a break in the Caribbean. She has other rabbit sitters lined up to cover her latest holiday. Indeed, there is something of a waiting list developing for Dill’s soothing, supportive male presence. With Euro 2008 looming, why am I not surprised?