I woke with a small fishing boat in the bed – it hadn’t caught anything and dematerialised when it saw several strands of seaweed in the shape of Jean Harlot hanging in the corner of the room. June had already gone to work in a Jean Harlot vehicle. I kept away from walking film memorabilia and had a quick breakfast of model railway landscapes before I strapped myself into my F14 cockpit, calling myself Tomcat as I did so. I had an afternoon of painting the flags of countries that don’t actually exist before dog fighting my way to a dinner of torn up bus tickets.
June and I started the day in a fresco; I was bending down picking up a little boy and she was handing out flowers. We were both peeled off the walls by family members and then June prepared the jungle cat from a Twentieth Century comic for a trip to town. The little girl and I found trees to hide behind – mine had space at the top for a new housing development (eighteen starter homes and a block of flats). We lunched in high and low chairs before making our way home just before the top hat flying saucers landed. My top hat was reputedly worn by Fred Astaire on a trip to Venus.
June went to town among a horde of ethereal beings while I decided to stand in an empty wardrobe and wait for it to be converted into the cargo hold of an interstellar spaceship. While there (and after pondering how big the crack in the bedroom ceiling will get before the ceiling actually collapses) I reminisced about walking into a seaside restaurant and seeing a room full of marine worms sat down to tea – a sea urchin with a Spanish surrealist on her head took my order and then watched a small helicopter take off from the platform on my own head and proceed to circle the room.
I left the house by the rabbit god portal but managed to hide my long ears under my hat as I materialised among a congregation of prehistoric cave painters. I did get a few strange looks as I went down the hill in a walking canoe – probably because it was a cold morning and the canoe had bare legs. After a short journey jumping on alarm clocks I met the old man under a duvet of cheese on toast; I then admired a nettle patch as it crept up a garden and adjoining hillside like a bad case of varicose veins. I came home via a cabbage tree artery, stopping off to pat a lamp post instead of a dog.
I suspected a band of ancient mariners were trying to repair their boat in the sheltered harbour of our garden; I tied a clump of hedging material to my back and investigated, finding a plane that looked like shoe and a shoe that hid a small dancer that rose up when the music stopped. June walked a piece of wood to work, stopping to examine a flower emerging from the crumpled remains of Lawrence of Arabia’s motorcycle. A message on the gate proclaimed that immortality was made from prime numbers and I balanced the scapula of a mastodon on my slide rule.
I looked in eight mirrors simultaneously to see if my patented flushing toilet earrings looked OK (the first movement of William Walton’s First Symphony was playing squash with itself inside my head). After a group of farm tractors had danced on the head of a pin I went out to find a field to cover with postage stamps. The lady behind the counter gave me a leg that had just danced into her shop looking for its owner – I thought the cat could use it to scratch its nose and brought it home not realising that it would demand python skin stockings and a diet of frozen bloodworms.
June couldn’t sleep so I dressed as a wild boar and travelled to a secret grove to find a herb called moly. I was later pictured in books on alternative mythologies as having bare legs sticking out of my hat and the scaffolding from the side of Saint Paul’s Cathedral over my ankles. When I left the house, almost an epoch later, everyone had turned to wood and were dropping chippings as they rushed to the station on their firewood commute. The dog, meanwhile, had painted herself grey and was planning to participate in Navy Day – the rabbit was wearing a bathing suit.