Out first thing with a king crab on one shoulder and a Captain America comic on the other (I was the Nutwood secret agent). I met the toolmaker on the East African plains thousands of years before the last ice age and we talked about sticks of rhubarb protruding through slabs of concrete. I stood on the concrete like a shark embalmed in formaldehyde and dreamt in pink bubbles floating above a model of the New York sky line. When I returned home via an anti-time portal I found June painting a pink room.
I seemed to have spent the night dreaming of lavatories and woke suddenly in a small room with a series of unconnected pipes. I looked out of a tiny window to see rows of corrugated sheets under which self portraits in short trousers would search for snakes. I then went downstairs using a ladder hidden in my hair (June had snakes hidden in hers) and looked under my breakfast bowl for a plastic toy – I found one that curled up when put in the palm of your hand. We spent the day hanging wallpaper.
I sat rubbing two sticks together as people accidentally papered to the wall started to dance like old women giving birth. A scouting party for the may fly kamikaze squad were having a meeting at the tip of another long stick floating horizontally in space – which June later carefully measured. I placed my fingers into a bucket of luke warm water just before noticing that the girl with sparklers in her hair was slowly going out and deciding to follow her; after first drying my hands in a passing reindeer’s fur.
I spent all day in the tower, the small window presented an ever changing view of matchbox cars and various members of the crow family made from a metal construction kit similar to Meccano. As June dodged giant hover flies on her way to the imperial duck pond I continued to remove layers of clothing – finally stopping when I had reached layer thirty two; if I had reached layer thirty three I would have received enlightenment and transformed into a single point of light. Outside blue people sat in tall trees.
As the Delphic oracle had prophesied it was my second childhood morning and I put on my puttees and readied myself for the bombardment that arrived just as I put the milk on my breakfast cereal. I held on tight to the legs of the statue of Lord Nelson in Trafalgar Square and then talked to a dodo frozen in time on the mantelpiece (next to a fading photograph of me sat cross legged on a howitzer shell). June arranged the hair of a retired Rhine maiden before going out to buy paper to wrap herself in.
After having black tea with the white rabbit I climbed the grey mountain with a bale of straw on my back; at the top I scattered the straw like the ashes of the first bonfire of the Spanish Armada – coming down as a member of an obscure Hindu sect (followed by a procession of tiger beetles). When the beetles had gone June and I laid a carpet in the crypt where the still beating heart was kept; I listened to its beat as I visited the dentist in my sleep – I woke up with female figurines instead of teeth.
I had another day as a white slave of Eurystheus. I started by painting white lines across the wall where guilty people line up. I then made white lines on the roads through a village deserted after the Black Death, then up beyond the horizon where dark matter keeps itself occupied by playing gravitational solitaire (during the last but one universe it had settle for snap). My shadow was a celestial highwayman, stopping the coaches on the way to the stars and asking the occupants to laugh out loud.