I went to London in the Eighteenth Century, spotting Dr Johnson as he disappeared down the Thames with fireworks in his hat (he was followed by a flotilla of little ducks; some of which had RAF roundels on their sides). I saw a house with an eye several stories high – I was sure it was following me as I went by riding on a fish. I met the lady in her cloud top house and piled the pillows against the door. Narcissus followed me home (although every time I looked round he had gone). June had a coal scuttle on her lap instead of the cat.
A very early morning and I had to tunnel out of bed like a trapped miner. I followed a vein to the father node and then sat motionless as a Toby Jug filled up with trinkets. My father showed me his memories trapped in amber. I thought of Jurassic Park and considered my own memories, resembling as they do a balsa wood glider tossed out of first floor window. I came home by horizontal parachute, travelling just a few inches above the ground. I landed in front of a choice of front doors – I chose the one which looked most familiar; not noticing the figure with fifteen arms.
June went through a Victorian archway – I imagined chimney sweeps and huddled children. Picking up a fairground goldfish I saw the mist rise taking the winged hedgerow with it. After a lay in of milliseconds I became a carpet moth and had a breakfast of tartan. I then followed a loose thread to a Neolithic forest clearing and bent over in the sunshine. I stood up in the afternoon and touched as many ceilings as possible in the time allowed; sitting down again in front of a wet landscape, watching it dry until June came in with a bag full of plastic soldiers.
I sat among lush vegetation, the derelict houses on each shoulder covered in moss. While looking down I saw tiny faces; they were so small I couldn’t tell if they were looking at me or not. As I rose among long lengths of bindweed I entertained myself with pictures of the dog wearing a tutu; she came out in army fatigues and we made a “Lone Pine Club” pact. Once inside the Nineteen Forties living room I watched the rain write sentences down the window – I corrected the grammar as it did so and then saw a tall tree with small cats instead of leaves.
No rain for once and the sun made an iridescent head on the semi-detached torso watching over our route to the playing fields. In my head was a cave in which a smaller version of myself sat listening for the strange scurrying noises coming from below. I was suddenly distracted by a brightly coloured parakeet, dressed rather shabbily I thought, walking slowly down the road. I walked in the opposite direction where a half size version of the Statue of Liberty was holding a wine glass instead of a torch. The strange noises were getting louder.
I had to visit another king’s castle to pour milk for the cat, coming out through a side gate and down the earthworks into a patch of blackberries and rubble. I was watching a snake ride along the horizon when the lady arrived carrying several identities in one bag. I moved the door sculpture (which had begun its existence with an open mouth but now had it firmly closed) and she entered several rooms at the same time. I spent the rest of the day making a a twenty foot long neck tie but at the time of writing I haven’t found anyone tall enough to wear it.
I got up before the alarm clock rang and quickly swallowed it. A glance in the mirror revealed an entirely different person but I didn’t have time to consider this further. I hitched a ride in a battle cruiser on its way to the Battle of Jutland and jumped off just before the rain fell. I talked to the old man about young children and tried on a suit once worn by a garden spider (I never worked out what to do with the extra sleeves). I returned home by pedalo, stopping in town to get some throat lozenges for the turtle who was hoping to become an opera singer.