I am trying to think what circumstances could induce me to stick my head up to the waist into a rabbit hole, and I frankly admit I am struggling.

The last time my mind whirled with such abandon was when I saw Claire Rayner in a dress that looked like a psychedelic tent, and I tried to imagine what was going through her head when she bought it, and how the shop assistants kept their faces straight.

I don't know what Ms Rayner would look like like in that dress, stuck up to the waist in a rabbit warren, and I do not intend to ponder on this. I'm saving it for Thursday.

What is bothering me at the moment is how anybody could ever embark upon something that would eventually lead to such an extraordinary demise as that of the rabbit-hunter.

Sit down, and think this through. You are out hunting rabbits, OK? Your ferret is scampering up and down inside your trousers, there's a smile on your face, and all's right with the world.

Suddenly you spot a rabbit, and it hares off home, vanishing down the hole and into the dark recesses of its warren.

You stand in front of the hole, scratch your chin, stick your hand into your trousers, as men do when they're not sure of the next move, and pull out your ferret.

It leaps from your hand, vanishes into the hole, and then there's the long goodbye.

After a while, even the most patient rabbit-hunter must think that the day is not going quite to plan, the ferret is too long gone, and action is called for.

Now, here we have the problem. I find it difficult to imagine any situation in which I might think it a good idea to plunge my head into the rabbit hole. Can you? Be honest.

But that's only half the problem. In order to enter a rabbit hole head-first, as this man did, distinct from hands-first, it is necessary that your arms be by your sides. There is simply no other way of doing it.

I suppose that by judicious leverage of the toes - a forward pushing movement - it must be possible to insinuate yourself halfway into the home of a rabbit, but what then?

Even if you wereto come face to face with the rabbit, what could you do about it? You would have no hands available to grab it, and it would seem unlikely to me that some silver-tongued entreaty on your part could persuade the rabbit to follow you to the surface, even supposing that there was some possible way of reversing yourself.

I am at a loss. Can anyone like rabbit that much? It's all right, I suppose, but it's not the sort of thing most people would ram their heads three feet into a hole to get at.

In any case, Sainsbury's is full of the stuff, all wrapped neatly in little trays, and you can stick your head as far into Sainsbury's as you like, with no worries about getting it out again.

Naturally I feel sorry for the ex-rabbit-hunter, but what more can we say? Let us just put our hands together and pray that Claire Rayner doesn't take up rabbit-hunting. I really don't feel well enough to contemplate the sight of her in that multi-coloured tent stuck up to the waist in a warren. The mind is not equipped to handle such things.

As I said, I'll leave that until Thursday. Sufficient unto the day, the madness thereof.