I swam twenty laps in my porridge bowl before I felt awake; the strange people who spend their entire existence scrambling within wall cavities had been especially busy last night.  June dressed as Nell Gwyn stood outside talking to a man with a crane under his hat, he used this to pull his trousers up after participating in the ancient Minoan ritual of bull jumping.  I had shrunk in the night so had to get a step ladder to reach the breakfast table; I counted eleven eyeballs, all trying to spy on each other.

I left the house early via the dome of a ballistic missile silo, travelling at super cheetah speed I found the king of the fairy folk buttering the face of a hot cross bun princess; we spoke at length using short sentences.  I came back as an ostrich jockey practising for the avian Derby. My studio had become a hot dog roll so I covered myself with mustard and pushed inside, June was sat in a bird cage hanging from the ceiling, we exchanged strange animal calls before I laid a lawn on my chest.

June I and went shopping, me dressed as Acteon and her as one of his dogs.  We met Diana in town and helped her find her glasses.  I contemplated making furniture from fig tree leaves while the Olympians patented extra hot jalapeno pepper ice cream. As the Director of the Colditz prisoner of war film making society I surreptitiously filmed their stunt doubles at their ablutions.  At the end of the commercial break I climbed into the cockpit of my new jet fighter and flew back to base for the night.

After a breakfast of multicoloured cornflakes I flew upstairs as a classical Persian demigod, shaking the hand that had mysteriously pushed itself out of the wall as I did so.  My studio had been recently colonnaded and I had purchased Bacchanalian wine stains to authenticate the floor.  So many wise old owls had congregated on the windowsill that they obscured the light.  I painted in the dark for a while before having to put the light on to find my cup of tea, I didn’t notice the capybara swimming in it.

I went to back to bed in the slit trench after June had surprised me by climbing her strings and attacking the puppeteer.  I rose as a water spout later than planned, flooding the kitchen before the dragons had tidied up their hoard.  Wearing the crown of a Saxon king I hoovered the lounge; simultaneously tucking the gelatinous mass of several jellyfish into my Wellington boots and tidying up the rampant hairdos of a number of friendly gorgons.  June returned home just as I parachuted into a re-enactment of Arnhem.

I didn’t sleep very well; I was held tightly by a giant gorilla after it had destroyed all the tiny biplanes, climbed down the Empire State building and retired to Texas – I tiled the kitchen wall behind the cooker while it did so.  After emerging from the icy cold water as Triton I blew my conch shell for eleven thousand transvestites who had set off on their annual pilgrimage and then settled down in front of the fire to perform miracles.  The hibernating bear ensconced in the outside lavatory was heard snoring.

June got out of bed early, waking me to remove layers of carboniferous flora from the artillery pieces in the wardrobe and switch on the landing lights for the giant dragonflies returning from action in the Falklands War.  I walked her to work, still counting the Neolithic stone implements haphazardly cast aside, and then returned home with memories of Giselle performed in a paper handkerchief box.  I blew my nose when I got in and absent mindedly went through my pockets for frozen eyeballs.

I spent the day as a high priest of an obscure Celtic religion (standing among ancient New Zealand tree ferns to memorise my lines).  After denouncing myself as a sham I was confined to my studio – a never ending ladder ascended through floor and ceiling, I temporarily got on to paint the pineal gland in a new portrait of Handel while a trusted glove puppet designed a new ocean liner and my other hand grasped the trapeze.  Upside down, I waited all day for the scantily clad girl to swing my way.

Out early in a very foggy morning to stand like the Flying Dutchman on the bow of his ship straining my fourteen eyes to see a glimmer of land.  I wiped the bathroom mirror and saw a thin band of yellow sand.  The old man and I looked at the young girls standing in front of their big gun before I came home to become an island in lukewarm bath water.  I walked into the White Hart dressed like Senta, saw too many people and walked out again.  June was going out as I was coming in and we exchanged a chip.

I had to walk June along a steel girder hundreds of feet above a New York pavement.  It was pouring with rain and she floated down below a flower patterned umbrella.  I hitched a lift on a passing howitzer shell heading for the Somme in 1915 causing the climbing plant attached to my legs to burst forth into bloom, each flower head having been franked by the Royal Mail.  The dairy maid’s fingers pushed through the turf like standing stones as the Friesian cow balloon touched down and the frog princes got off.