Skratch the Cat timed his entrance to perfection. When the others arrived, he pounced out from inside the caffè. "Flowers for little old me?" he grinned, "you really shouldn't have!" The Wabbit saluted solemnly. "We were waiting for you tell us what kind of adventure we were in." Skratch saluted in return. "This time, I think you should tell us, Commander." The Wabbit grinned. "Well sit down Skratch, I'm going to pass the buck." He called for drinks and looked at Wabsworth. "Your turn." Wabsworth didn't hesitate. "It was an open text, in a world of unavoidable diverse readings." "Umberto Eco," said Lapinette firmly. The Wabbit was agog. "Do you understand him?" he asked, "I really haven't the slightest clue what he's talking about." Lapinette chuckled enticingly. "He inferred that readers had to make things up and splice them back into the story." "The reader lends a hand to the author." said Skratch. "And the hand remains an enigma just outside our grasp," sighed Lapinette." Skratch leaned back, mimed puffing a pipe and adopted a stuffy English accent. "The Beast with Five Fingers, don't ya know? What a strange business altogether." The Wabbit thought deeply. "What about our readers? Do they have to make things up?" "All the time!" laughed Lapinette.
