Howdy stranger. It’s me again. The rabbitarian (random funny: this is obviously a hazard guess at the term used to describe someone who eats rabbits, but the spellchecker thought I meant “Britannia”…) of today’s world. Possibly tomorrow’s. Not so sure about yesterday’s though.

It sounds like the rabbit-man is done fixing his magic blue box. That’s good. I’m getting bored now. I fancy leaving this place. I wonder where it goes. Does it go to places beyond the reach of the rabbit life-form…?

I hope so. I might need to tell Franc, though. That guy’s damn near impossible to find in this universe, let alone somewhere without rabbit. I’ll need to stock up. You never know when you might never be coming back some place again.

Franc is a tradesman*. The go-to guy for the lost and found. The sort of individual who can’t spell “Frank”, yet can attain anything in every dimension on any plane of existence. And he sells it cheap, to anyone, no questions asked. If it wasn’t for his breath, I’m sure we’d be friends.

He’s the reason I’m in Brighton, in case you didn’t ask. Brighton suits him. Don’t ask why. I find him in all sorts of places. Once it was a library in Hull. Another time it was a public toilet in Pyeongtaek (South Korea). No one ever asks Franc why.

Why is Hogwarts in Scotland, of all places? That’s what I want to know. The only train is from London, and Harry (at least initially) lives in Surrey. Why not have it in the South, or have the train stop at various stations on the way up**?

That J.K Rowling. She’s a blast. Never met her, of course, but I like the books. They’re heavy. Perfect for keeping down a tarpaulin in bad weather. Anyone who designs books like that is a blast, in my book. It’s a heavy book, mine.

I wonder if the rabbit-man likes heavy books. Maybe he doesn’t need them. I can’t see that box of his going down in bad weather. It looks solid enough. It definitely sinks.

Me? I need them all. 


*There is ALWAYS, for as long as any member of humanity has needed to buy something, been a tradesman called Frank. No one knows how, or why. Perhaps it’s in the name. Being frank is a good state for a tradesman to be in, generally.

**Sure, it might take a bit longer, but at least Slytherin would stop receiving every kid living north of Nottingham. An eleven year-old who’s had to travel all that way for the sake of education will not be feeling particularly chivalrous/patient/witty by the time they finally arrive.


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