Douglas Coupland’s Generation A is a story about a time when all the world’s bees have died and everybody is hooked on a drug that makes them want to be alone.
It’s full of Coupland’s characteristic little asides and stories, including one where the highly-politicised, overwrought and transitory girlfriend of one of the characters freaks out and leaves him when she discovers that he has a rabbit in the fridge for dinner.
I’ve experienced this sort of reaction to rabbit a couple of times, although it must be said that rabbit eating has never precipitated a change in personal circumstances on the scale that Coupland describes, but there have been a few people who’ve eyed me with deep suspicion on finding out that I eat rabbit sometimes.
There’s normally a little glance, and then a stare as they realise that, no, I’m not joking, I really do eat rabbit, and then there’s often a nervous silence whilst they try to work out what to say.
I normally stay quiet and let them feel uncomfortable. I know, I know…it’s a bit mean, isn’t it?
I don’t want to suggest that eating rabbit is taboo. It isn’t, not in the same way that eating horse meat is a complete no-go for the British (but, inexplicably, completely acceptable to the French).
There are more subtle qualities to the question of whether to eat rabbit or not.





