The Wabbit was dreaming - or hoped he was dreaming. He recognised the corridor. It was certainly the Museum of Crime in Rome. But there was no floor, only sky. He could feel fluffy clouds at his back, and he was sinking. "Why am I here?" he said to himself. He looked at his paws because he knew it was the way to tell if he was in his dream body. He could see his paws all right. He wiggled them than they moved. "This would suit Carlos Castaneda," he thought. "If I'm in my dream body, something will happen." But nothing happened except for a relentless sinking. Maybe it was the sinking that was happening. He tried to recall the last time he'd been to the museum. He'd been on a work trip to Rome and had just been to the Antimafia Commission to give evidence before learned judges. That was following his undercover stint at a popular newsagent and he'd popped into the museum on the way back on a whim. It was a strange museum, an eclectic collection of objects which he quite liked. And for once in his life, he hadn't borrowed anything. The Wabbit thought that would be bad form for the Crime Museum. He bobbed up and down a bit more. The walls and the skirting board came into view, then sky, then skirting boards. He shut his eyes and tried very hard to hear. There were murmuring voices. He opened his eyes. The murmuring stopped. He opened them. There was the murmuring again. With an enormous effort he made his ways to the walls and leaned on them for support. The sky started to whirl and became solid, but the walls were soft as the marshmallow clouds he'd seen before. "Curiouser and curiouser," thought the Wabbit ...
