I was only a couple of millimetres high for the first part of the day, struggling among carpet pile I wrote an ode to a bisexual cockroach with a shoe fetish – a silverfish banged a silver drum and pushed the ejection seat button in the cockpit of an F15 (F1 opens Help). I grew to forest height during the afternoon as a group of stick men pushed the age of the universe back by a small fraction of a second allowing everyone to live at least twice. Blackboard note: all my best friends were stick insects.
I woke alone as cat in a mouse hole (June was in a bald eagle’s nest looking after the pets). After an astronaut’s breakfast I ventured into the alien’s bedroom where I examined a picture. In the foreground I saw a shape that looked like an ear ironing a wedding dress – the background took a hearing test. I posed for a photograph as a skeleton hoovered the dance floor, the dog practised tai chi and one of the cats wrapped up mummified crane flies and filed them.
I went out early, stuck between the postage stamp and the envelope. The old man collected his mail between putting cheese on toast and setting off the fire alarm; he washed his hands and I weeded the garden. We returned via St Peter’s Basilica, collected firewood on the shores of Atlantis and then on to the rain forest, me remembering the concept of worlds within worlds and him earnestly talking with a wax work. I opened the front door like a snowman entering a desert.
June left the house riding a camel which we both called Rudolf Valentino. As they settled into a nursing home distance I made a sculpture from a hay stack and then threatened to set it on fire; it was saved by the remonstrations of the paper people who were drifting by in place of tabloid headlines. While waiting for the rabbit to don a suit of armour I pressed flowers and wrote an urgent message on the shell of a snail. I then separated myself into seventeen distinct identities.
When the cuckoo shot out of its clock holding a figure from Guernica I shot out of the gelatinous mass I had been living in holding a toy whistle (June was already up playing draughts with a barn owl). After finishing off a portrait of Pope Julius II I went out and found the ghost of a fallen warrior sitting at the bottom of the garden. It made cities from brassica leaves and then razed them to the ground. I went back to mending clocks wondering how many simultaneous times there are.
June went out early again while I was still a merman lazing on a log. After a breakfast of paper cups and plates I fitted a crane on my shoulder instead of a parrot and planted guitars and other musical instruments in the front garden. I was experimenting with a new way of tuning my guitar when an old man jumped down from his mechanical ostrich and gave me his business card. He told me about cheap electricity and tales of people who ride clouds like wild horses.
June went up the hill with Jill while Jack and I slept on a slither of paper; I floated over tumbling bodies and then wafted through the letter box of a car boot genie – I forgot to make my three cheap wishes. Once outside I shovelled soil in search of shards of pottery so I could make a smiling face in the sand for the reptilian body that emerges from the ground after midday. I was battling the monster when June came in with a large bouquet of flowers (which the carbon copy caterpillar then ate).