Last summer I had an odd dream. We needed the Easter Bunny to entertain at a children’s party, so I went to look for him. I wandered up a grassy track, knowing he lived there, and groaned inwardly when I stumbled across a military camp with a big fence round it. There was a board at the gate and I stopped to read it, but I had only read the first couple of lines when a soldier appeared and asked what I wanted.
“I just came looking for someone,” I said. “I didn’t know the camp was here.”
“Who are you looking for?” asked the soldier briskly.
“Er… the Easter Bunny.”
“Right,” said the soldier, writing down ‘Easter Bunny’ on his notepad. “If you wait here I’ll send someone to talk to you.”
A short while later a pleasant-spoken officer came and let me into the admin hut to discuss where the Easter Bunny might be found.
The dream tails off, really.
It was obviously based on the G8 security fence, and on the children who were killed in Iraq when accepting sweets from American soldiers.