After my wife gave birth to a baby rabbit, she tried to blame it on my recent predilection for magical realism, which she regarded as nothing more than an excuse for puerile self-indulgence.

But I wasn’t buying any of it. I remember looking out into the garden and seeing Thumper staring up at me from his run and I knew straight away what had been going on.

‘I’m watching you,’ I mouthed at him. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get away with this.’

Then I turned back and looked at our new lop-eared child, lying there all sticky and pink, and I thought that, yes, I could perhaps learn to love it. If only I could work out what kind of a metaphor it was.