I waited for the postman to arrive as I was expecting a papier mache celebrity head made from the chewed up remains of tabloid newspapers. In the end all that arrived was several fingernail clippings and a small part of periodontal ligament. I stirred my tea with a scale model of a Pershing missile and arranged a pile of coloured cut-out stars on the silhouette of an ex-president of America. After lunch I climbed a mountain in the house and then tunnelled into the hot magma at my place of work.
June pulled the curtains back and I said hello to the procession of people ambling by with cereal bowls balanced carefully on their heads. I put a crossbow from the Hundred Years War on my own head and changed into the chain mail which was laid out on the bed in readiness for our trip out. We walked round the Crystal Palace holding lighted matches and watched the birthday cake being taken out to a row of people dressed in animal costumes. The girl in the polar bear suit complained about the cold.
I pulled myself out of the hole in an acoustic guitar with some effort. This act wasn’t helped by the policeman’s helmet which June had tied to my head before leaving for work. I then pondered the inconsequentiality of human existence as a steam engine ran up my left arm and then down my right, making several nasty stains on my shirt collar in the process. I sat in my studio like the last dodo looking into a mirror – my brown study finally changing colour when my wife returned holding an open book.
Got up late (I had been sleeping on Tower Bridge and finally woke when the roadway started to rise). I leisurely walked round in circles making my resting place on the hot African plains. Later as SuperGorilla I visited pixies with my invisible shoes making no mark in the soft sand. While there I found a map of all the fairy roads in the South of England and imagined the route I would take on my barefoot walk. When the dust had settled I coaxed a conger eel out of its hiding place and we had a long chat.
I walked around wearing a clown suit, my shoes longer than an alter ego’s pet crocodile, and spent much of the morning painting smiles on pieces of crockery (which I hoped no one would break). June pulled a number of ornamental conifers and the remnants of a cold war microwave receiver out of her hair before unrolling a map of the Eiger and laying several small figures on it. I placed spare figures in differently coloured boxes and devised a game for two players in which nobody won and nobody lost.
June sprouted wings during the night and flew off from the roof top before I had raised myself out of the scallop shell I had been sleeping in. I talked to Poppy the dog and she spoke to Bugsy the cat – when I heard the message again I found I had declared my undying love to a butterfly bush in the garden. June returned home on butterfly wings just after I had seen a man with eight heads pick up a piece of paper and put it his pocket. I pulled seven small stones from my own pocket and made a wish.
I left the house before light, floating along the road in an upside down hat; I called myself Timur the unlame and my father announced that he was the new god of the canaries. We both sat on a perch for some time reminiscing about the B roads of Yorkshire. When I came home I found June on her knees praying with a galvanised bucket stuck on her head. I pulled it off and gave her some shallots to plant. I subsequently went upstairs, painted red lines over black ones and then swallowed a credit card.