June went back to work followed by three and a half men riding camels – I had to get up early to wait for the mountain to arrive. As I couldn’t take the dog out for a walk she decided to learn to touch type on a grand piano. I talked to giant reptiles who, surprisingly, had knocked on the back door with tickets to see The Phantom Of The Opera; I explained I hadn’t seen the show but lived it most of the time. The man who had invented an upside down boat (for a sea that flows on the ceiling – just above plastic kits of a Junkers 88 and Lockheed Hercules complete with Blood hound missile) knocked on the door just before dinner and just after the man selling yesterday’s newspapers had parked his car on a fly agaric fungus that had pushed up through the concrete drive.
June and I went out for the day; this was proclaimed by a giant mouth that appeared in an otherwise empty wall – I thought it would make a nice aquarium and was just saying this to a pretty black and white dress that issued from the letter box when a pair of huge concrete boots walked by (June thought she saw a pair of concrete legs being lowered into the sea near Weymouth but couldn’t be sure). We looked at rolls of wallpaper: June in an attempt to find lines that could be measured to a fraction of a micrometer and me in the hope that a maidservant to Cleopatra might emerge holding a small turtle and a first aid box once used by Florence Nightingale in the Antarctic. We had a meal in a cave before coming home to find a signpost which was found before on the savannah of Argentina.
The start of the working week which was represented as a sky full of small coloured circles; fancifully I imagined each circle containing the essence of a departed life – if I was a post-it note stuck to the door of a refrigerator I would say “I wish I was still living in the Sixties!”. June left for work inside a briefcase as I emerged from my Lockheed Starfighter cocoon with small oases in my driftwood eye sockets. The dog and I went out for a walk, each carrying part of the Royal Albert Hall and on our return I played the drums for a band of extinct mammals – I think the group was called the Heavy Skeletons and our first gig was at the bottom of the ocean several miles east of the Marianas Trench. June came back later with an unknown ocean in her hat.
I got up some time between early and late and went downstairs with a pronounced sitcom face. June was a fly on the wall documentary and we watched television screens shaped like armchairs over a breakfast of exclamation marks: ostriches participating in Prime Minister’s Question Time was switched over half way to scenes of water pouring from a jug on top of a mountain and filling a glass at the mouth of a sea. After making a spiral out of plastic question marks we went to lunch. June reminisced about her time as an artificial leg on a polymathical centipede and I remembered that thirty eight years ago I said “goodnight, swatted the light and turned off the fly”. When I said goodnight again a rabbit was heard jumping on top of a sandwich maker.
I got up a little late and watched the alarm clock become the abdomen of a giant wasp; it flew away in time to see the mannequin in a boutique window spit on the glass. I got up as a Spanish dancer; June was downstairs eating leaves as I entered as part of a forest. We went to town like caddis flies, encased in the detritus of last week. On the way down I noticed that the purple hat which had nestled among a small stand of conifers all month was preparing for take off – I waited as the giantess put the dirty crocks in the dish washer and then watched it find a vein in the purple sky. I came back from town three times even though I only went down once. The cat in an empty building had become an aeroplane and I ended the day as a Spanish wallflower.
I rose with the rooks, walked on shallow water while June swam through deep and then left the house with a cloud attached to my left wrist with a thin length of cord. The cloud was parked at the tavern stop as I boarded the bus – which had rather squat legs instead of wheels (I never thought anything of it at the time but I must admit I found this a bit puzzling later). I met the old man in a house from the Twenty Second Century and we talked of mobile harbours and static ships while balancing sea lions on our noses. I came home across the Adriatic in a boat I borrowed from Agamemnon with an idea in my head of merging dusk and dawn. I had to walk Poppy along a street of matchstick men after I had emptied my pockets of part of the atmosphere of Jupiter.
I woke up in the middle of the night, just in time to see one of the early ironclads sail by where dark clouds should be. I finally got back to sleep and then woke again amongst dark clouds – incidentally, there is a friendly vampire in a hidden cellar below the house and we often stop to chat if I am wandering about at night – I am usually the one with traces of blood on my lips. After a breakfast of scattered grain I went in search of long words in a land of shredded paper. I stood on a number of turtles in turn but could not find the right world; I stopped when a passing elephant stuffed its trunk into my pocket. I was still finding mathematical equations in the lining of my jacket when June came back from spending her day clinging to an old fashioned railway signal.