When I awoke this morning, I realised I had been dreaming about the hare.

I went downstairs and started to type and this just flowed out, like automatic writing.

“You want to look good on that bike. A cool, fit, older guy.

An older guy who can still fuck?”

Oh, so it’s you Hare.

Hare gives me a cool, metrosexual smile.

OK, I’m vain. But Hare is a real show-off, a poser.

Hare can mimic the “thinker” too, propping his chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Let’s talk Geopolitics”, says Hare. “I’ll watch you scratch your balls while you work that big brain. I have the same package between my legs. I see you look enviously at men with big bulging flies.”

Hare can leap and run and do acrobatics too. He can thrill us. He can make us hold our breath in amazement.

Hare could tap dance like Fred Astaire if he wanted and close with a neat little bow.

My haunches tense. I kick down. The bike leaps.

Oh, how I love the rush of speed on a downhill run and the precarious miracle of balance.

Maureen is waiting. She just texted a message with a smiley face.

I’ve never written anything like this before. It just came out. Perhaps I shouldn’t publish it.