My Diary

After an Action Man dream I woke in the vice like grip of a Barbie doll, all covered in lipstick, and then climbed like Ken to paint a cross dressing ogre’s eyelashes – which obviously necessitated standing on an exceedingly tall ladder (with a catalogue of cloud formations dangling from my judo belt).  This took most of the day as he kept fluttering his eyelids at me.  I finally packed in when a number of sheep forced themselves past the stage door attendant and started to count themselves.

My Diary

I started the day riding in an imaginary Rolls Royce, a giant bowl of porridge (with an unknown number of Olympic standard swimmers floating in it) on my lap – I later bought a lead and took the porridge out for a walk.  When I got out of my four seater bubble car I saw several retired security guards nonchalantly leaning on door posts like empty bottles the milkman had forgotten to collect – I put a small plastic frog in each, rolled up my sleeves and pulled on a piece of string sticking out of the ground.

My Diary

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.

My Diary

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.

My Diary

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.

My Diary

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.

My Diary

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.