I got up under an antarctic ceiling and walked downstairs with tiny unicorns standing on each shoulder tossing cold coins in the air – I later found out that the coins were farthings and a small number of jenny wrens had flown off into the bamboo by the back door. It was a slow day in my studio; the cat unzipped a bag of diamond encrusted hand grenades and I walked along a tenon saw blade holding an overripe apricot. I later put apricots in my hair and, as a joke, pulled a miniature Loch Ness monster out of a coffee jar – June having already drunk the original contents.
I got up in two times; a fact I couldn’t get my five heads around. I had my breakfast in a lake and then saw a procession of garlanded figures approach the cross I was leaning against – I considered this a trick of the light and let them pass by. A pelican delivered a box so I could put an ocean liner above the kitchen window. I approached the garden as if it was a bull in a ring, waived my cloak at a passing tuatara before the neighbours drove off in a converted milk float. The buildings were bending in the breeze as I donned my cardboard armour and rode off to find a windmill.
I was woke in the night by a pangolin playing a drum kit and floated several feet above a recently ploughed field for several hours after this (June later mentioned in passing her story of a luminous skeleton playing a saxophone watched by the Bride of Frankenstein – more correctly the Bride of Frankenstein monster). I walked her to town counting the number of arrows flying through the air as I did so. I came back and dressed as a tom cat before having to go down again to pull the mermaids out of her shopping bags. After this I walked around with a small Moses on my head.
I went out extremely early, holding hands with a bright red omnibus. I met the old man in a multi-storey haystack and we talked of old times – when everyone had a haystack under their hat (I lifted my hat and a harvest mouse lifted his). I got a lift home from a pair of space gypsies in a large black car with several cart horses in the boot. A garden pond sat on the back seat replete with a rowdy group of frogs practising singing from the same hymn sheet. I had to go to town immediately after arriving home but I still got back in time to tuck a robot up for the night.
I escaped from the black hole of breakfast wearing an army helmet painted bright pink and holding three library books. I opened a page with punctuation marks of flak surrounding a B29 bomber over Japan. After a crash landing on a bomb blast shaped foam mattress I walked to town to buy a party dress for the rabbit. I steeple chased all the way home followed by a number of people recently escaped from their portraits. I shook hands with my cubist self and gave my surreal self a sweet. June came in a bit later dressed as Lisa Gherardini (she wasn’t smiling).
I got up in the heavy rain and poured a glass of water down the sink. Curiously it had a row of lipstick tubes along the back; I called them missiles on the head of Medusa and removed one mask – it had a Victorian folly for a nose and the hair was attached to the face like a guitar solo at the end of a song. I stood on the parapet watching almost extinct animals recede into the distance; I called them my teenage record collection and waited for the needle to drop. I then sat like a cat in an Egyptian wall painting watching a girl go down the road wearing two galvanised baths instead of shoes.
June grew gradually more transparent during the first part of the morning, finally fading away before the sun and I went out for a drink. I got back in time to measure the inside of my art cage before the long anticipated arrival of a man dressed as a rabbit. I called him Sandy and showed his business card to June (who had rematerialised as a set of shelves). After he had gone another man knocked on the door, his hand inside a glove puppet and with a solar panel on each shoulder – I told him it was due to rain and slipped inside a foolscap envelope for a sleep.