Michael is a man. Sadly, he's a bit of an empty man, failing to experience the joys of life as its exterior pressures consume him. He barely even notices Fluffy. Fluffy is a bunny. He's a young bunny rabbit, brought up by Michael like his very own child. No wonder Fluffy's confused. Fluffy does experience all the joys of life. Loudly.
"Farmers drive tractors and they drive their tractor all day. I'm going to be a farmer one day. I'll drive across my fields... and to the library. I'll be like the farmer in my library book. He's good. I'll cut him out when we got home. Can I keep this book Daddy? Can I? Can I keep the book? Daddy you never listen to me."
"What?"
"I said can I keep this book?"
"It's a library book. We have to take it back when you've read it."
[finally back at the flat]
"Someone's singing my Lord. Kumbayah... Can I use these Daddy?"
"No! I'll get you some 'safe' scissors. Here they are."
"Kumbayah <Actinic:Variable Name = 'snip'/> Oh... someone's praying... me lord... kumbuyah... Someone's praying me lord. Kumbuyah. Someone's praying my Lord..... kumbuyah. Oh Lord... booby loob y loob."
Well, that book's not going back in one piece!
Not only does Lia has the most superb ear for dialogue, and the knowledge of a child's easily distracted nature, she's also a great observer of interaction or lack of it when people manage no more than an inattentive "very good" in lieu of paying attention. Everyone lives in a world of their own preoccupations, especially children. Witness this, in the Basilica Cattedrale, Piazza Duomo in Sicily, after Michael takes Fluffy there to stay with his parents, Nannu and Nanna.
"Can you see Jesus on the cross?"
"Yes, Nanna."
"He died for us. Oh Jesus is good... tut. He was dead for three days and then he came back to life. It was a big, big miracle. He has so much love for us. We can't even imagine how much love that it. He knows our every thought and feelings."
"... .... Where is Jesus living now? Is it in Sicily?"
"Yes, he lives in Sicily. And London and everywhere all over the world. There is another place where he especially likes to live."
"Where Nanna?"
"It's right here - in our hearts. We can speak to him and he can speak to us, in our hearts."
"Oh. ... Nanna? Do you love tractors?"
"Tractors?"
"Yes Nanna. Tractors that farmers drive."
"Well, I'm not sure. I don't think about tractors very much really."
"Tractors are good. They are so good. Tut. Tractors have got big, black wheels, and they are better than cars because they do work for the farmer."
"Oh yes. They are good aren't they."
"Yes Nanna, they're very good."
Love the way Simone leaves out the commas when Fluffy's addressing someone. It's that sort of thinking that makes all the difference to the tone. The book's not all sweetness and light, though. Michael's self-absorbed sister is both hypercritical and hypocritical, and he himself is constantly trying to run away, most especially from Suzanna, Fluffy's needy nursery teacher, who's constantly haranguing him with a barrage of emails, letters and phone calls, and even follows him, without warning, to Sicily. Not the healthiest relationship.
There are no "issues" here - it's not that sort of a book - but there is an undercurrent that flows through the story, of failure to embrace what's sitting right in front of you, and if the final series of epiphanies seem too opportune, well again, it's not that sort of a book. It's guest-narrated by a dust particle, for goodness sake! In fact, all the little detours - the diagrams of Michael's inner thoughts, the guest-narration by the dust particle, the rewind after a conversation doesn't work out too well when Suzanna melts through the bench when Michael tells her quite bluntly it's over... and in particular the ending as the dust particle is berated by the speck of dandruff - remind me rather of Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. Not only is this not taking itself too seriously, it's messing about with all the possibilities of presentation:
"As this is a comic," explains the dust particle, "we did manage to get a basic visual representation of this experience. The following pages are an impression of a nano of a nanosecond of the inners workings of Michael Pulchino's mind. Please bear in mind, however, that this isn't photographic, in fact it is hardly accurate at all (no offence meant to the artist)."
What it is, is enormously good fun, and the world is a far brighter place for having this sunshine in it.
