Ian McMillan: Everyday dramas of pink ears and wet pants

Tag : Whole Rabbit
in T-shirts and pink bunny ears invaded the platform like aflashmob or a marketing exercise for a new breakfast cereal calledPink Ears.

Their T-shirts announced that they were on their way to Helen's HenDo in Edinburgh, and I smiled at the thought of that quiet andsophisticated city being invaded by a gang of Manc rabbits. Theylit up the dull platform like a son et lumière and I was happy tonote that I wasn't the only one grinning.

The girls weren't smiling, though: one of their number was late andthe Edinburgh train was due. The pink ears looked as though theywere about to wilt, and they despatched one of their number,wearing what Freddie and the Dreamers used to call Short Shorts, torun down to the station entrance to hunt out the missing Hen, orBunny.

I'm not joking when I say that the whole of the holding area ofPlatforms 13 and 14 was gripped by the drama: the two older blokeswith their cycle shorts and fold-up bikes, the students on theirway to Glastonbury, the family arguing over who should go and buythe chewing gum, the very thin man with the very big briefcase; allof us were watching the screens and watching the ears and hopingthat the missing member of the party got there in time, like a realrabbit that just manages to hop across the motorway before thejuggernaut thunders by.

I pictured us bursting into applause as she appeared just in time,which, of course, she would have done if this had been a Britishromantic comedy film. But, sadly, for this site-specific art event,the applause never came. The woman in the shorts ran back to hermates shaking her head just as the train thundered in. Theyclambered on and I sat there for a while longer in the hope thatthe holder of the empty seat might still appear, but she never did.

Perhaps it's because I'm a writer, but I imagined whole scenariosfor her; left her ticket at home, missed the bus, taxi not turnedup. In some fundamental way, we'd all been affected that morning bya real-life drama, a narrative without a conclusion, asite-specific art event that would keep us wondering throughout therest of the day and into the evening in our various homes as wecompleted the story in our heads.

The second ritual actually happened the night before, and it was arawer and colder event, but it still had elements of theatre anddrama and comedy and, if you'll pardon the phrase, soaking wetpants.

I'd been to a meeting in Barnsley and my mate, Sean, was giving mea lift home in the pouring rain; we'd dropped off some people atBlacker Hill and we were just trundling past the cricket ground inWombwell when we saw a huge number of lads standing by the roadjumping up and down and shouting.

At first I had no idea what was happening: I thought they were justcoming out of the cricket club or maybe they were on their way to aparty or maybe they were that phenomenon that strikes fear into
the adult heart, the Gang of Youths on The Street making a Nuisanceof Themselves.

Then I noticed that a lot of them had no shirts on, and some had notrousers on, and a lot of them were thin and they looked like BillyCasper in the scene from Kes where they're making him have ashower. It dawned on me what was happening, what ritual I waswitnessing, what narrative event I was about to take part in: theywanted Sean, or any passing motorist, to drive into the vast lakeof a puddle at the side of the road and splash them.

I'm cautious but Sean isn't. "Come on then, if you want some!" heshouted, although the boys couldn't hear him, and he roared throughthe puddle sending a tidal wave high into the air and over thelads, who cheered, wetly.

Because I'm cautious and because I'm a writer, I pictured themsneaking home to their mams and getting a good telling off; maybeone mam was the bunny who didn't make it.

Ritual, narrative, drama. Pink ears and wet pants. Makes the worldgo round, doesn't it?