In the dream state I picture The Rabbit of Usk as a truly voluminous tome, not one of those giant hardbacks that just sit there, but a well worn paperback with a broken spine which in my view suggests a book that someone might have actually read. There'll be pictures, hundreds of them, there'll be couple of thousand pages that contain a glossary, there'll be full color maps, the odd diagram and there'll be good few addendums.
Then when my time comes to meet the great unknown, my parts scattered by the
birds of the air, beasts of the field and any subterranean dweller who might
express interest, I'll be clutching The Rabbit of Usk, my expression will be so
blissful some might suspect that I'd seen The Rapture. But none of this is going
to happen if I can't persuade our hero to sit down and have lunch with Saint
Chad, whose bones are still in somewhere like Lichfield.