Rambling on.

Tufton Warren. Isn’t that a lovely name. For some unknown reason it makes me think of bunnies hopping through a meadow. My family moved away when I was a couple of months old so I don’t remember the place. It was a tiny then and is still a hamlet.

It also makes me think of Heathrow Airport.

I was on my way back to the States after a lovely visit with my family in England. The American Airlines terminal was chaos, the lines were long with tired, anxious travelers who knew they yet had far to go. To facilitate ease of passage, airport security came along the lines, asking their security questions. I got a wizened little old man with thick-lens glasses which made his eyes start out of his head like those of an owl . He smiled as he looked at me over his spectacles and asked his first question, revealing large crooked teeth. Something about not letting my luggage out of my sight?

“No. Never took my eyes off it.”

Next question: “Did another person place anything in your case, the contents of which you’re unaware of?”

Being an honest idiot, I told him yes, they did. “My sister gave me Christmas presents. They’re wrapped. I don’t know what they are.”

He gave me an eagle-eyed – I mean owl-eyed – stare. Actually, he looked kind of vulturish with that big hooked nose. “Get on all right with your sister, do you?”

Honest-nitwit here replied with all sincerity that she and sister got along just fine.

He looked at my passport. “Tufton Warren? Nice place, is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been there.”

Oops! Was that strike two! I hastily added: “We moved when I was a baby. I don’t remember it. I’ve never been back there.”

He nodded sagely while I sweated, then he passed down the line to his next victim.

I loved bunnies when I was a kid. And I felt awful when I came across a sick one. I always took it home, and my mum shrieked, and bunny disappeared. I couldn’t even say myxomatosis, let alone identify a bunny with the nasty disease.

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