On GOOD FRIDAY, here’s a penny for your thoughts that might give you a pounding headache: is the Easter Bunny a male or a female? All the very many people I’ve asked in the past have unhesitatingly pronounced the Easter Bunny to be male. The Trinidadian Easter Bunny is a figure of authority, analogous to God the Father himself, and Trinis default to declaring anyone in charge of anything to be a male.

Which is understandable, in our culture.

But isn’t it hard enough for a rabbit to lay eggs without also depriving it of ovaries?

Too besides, as we say in Parliament, or at least in the rural seats thereof, little rabbits – called “kittens”, if you can believe it – it’s like this Easter Bunny thing will swallow the whole animal kingdom – little rabbit kittens are born alive; they doesn’t hatch.

Since this whole Stormy thing broke, they toled me not to Tweet a word and I thought that meant no dairy either! It took me nairly three weeks to figure out they don’t know about my secret dairy! I can writhe here anytime I want! That’s how good I keep a secret. I’m the BEST secretor in the world. Nobody secretes like me!

Disclosure: former President Carmona and I have been friends since our LLB days at UWI, Cave Hill, in 1979.

LISTENING TO President Paula Mae Weeke’s inauguration speech, you had to feel a little sorry for Prime Minister Keith Rowley, who must have felt the brand-new president was a bit like the same old-same old.

Now the old Keithos, poor fella, was so keen to be rid of Paula Mae’s predecessor that, asked a near-throwaway question by a TV reporter, he could find nothing to say about Anthony Carmona’s five-year presidency than, “Well, we survived it.”

Like cancer, one imagines.

We survived President Carcinoma.

IT WASN’T the half-hour drive through traffic that got to me, nor even that they’d told me on the phone to come to that branch; or that, when I got there, it was plain to see, through the all-glass frontage, that the store had been shut for ages, furniture carried away, cobwebs everywhere.

No, it was the sign on the door: “As part of our commitment to excellence and our ongoing determination to serve you better, we have streamlined our operation…” The sign, without irony intended, painstakingly explained that the shutting down of that branch without notice was actually an outstanding form of customer treatment a snivelling little rat like me probably didn’t deserve.

AT FIRST, there were only one or two and I thought little or nothing of dispatching them: field mice thrive in the Bajan canefields and knocking them on the head occasionally is one small responsibility of the country gentleman. As we tamed the wild empty lots around our house, though, reducing the grasshopper invasion from half-a-dozen every night to one or two per month, the mouse population in our “under-the-house” actually, perversely, increased – even though they shared the space with three dogs.