The Wabbit was at a loose end. He's just finished a mission and there was no sign of another. His hop was more of an amble as he meandered through the streets. Everything was closed and the places that weren't, were - to put it bluntly - naffable. His eyes lit on a place he hadn't seen before. It was closed even for the sale of pasta. "La Bottega," he murmured and mentally put it on his list. He couldn't remember whether it was the place that had been rude to him. He'd decided never to go there again, rather than do something unmentionable to it - and he'd shut it out his mind. But it wasn't the same place. He inspected the sign. "Handmade pasta!" he exclaimed. "Nothing like it." It was rather a hot day for June and the air smelled of burning paper and plastic - the result of a recycling plant fire. "Hope they didn't burn the pasta," he laughed to himself. He hopped onward. The sun beat down like it never had before. Even the hardiest of tourists were running in melting flip-flops, and their shorts and baggy t-shirts billowed in the wind that always afflicted Rome. It felt like standing against a giant hot air drier. The Wabbit switched on the air conditioning he'd fitted in his fur. He seldom used it, but sometimes there was a call for it. "Aaaah," he said. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good." Then, just as he rounded a corner, he saw something he'd never seen before ...
