There is no doubt about it: I am a raccoon, wandering somewhere in Norwich, on a mission to catch a train. The trains pass by regularly, moving so quickly that they are almost a blur. I try to hop on one and find myself catapulted like a soft little critter bullet, flying past the boundaries into a strange pink checkerboard oblivion. The quirky background music shifts between welcoming me to the Water Zone and telling me to scram. The Easter Island head on the platform grumbles at me, so I decide to toss it into the sea. 17525
