I pulled myself out of my bearded figure bowl of porridge before the dog could rotate her hourglass – June had meanwhile pulled herself out of the water like the very first amphibian. We sat in the microwave waiting for the music to start (the hourglass rotated the dog). My breakfast sing song ended in a rabbit warren with rabbit firemen going up rather than down the pole and the ferret town criers silent. I went to the now silent town on my own. I came back with a porridge face and a Galatea horizon in my spectacles. I then went to town with June.
I was up early, the door of the space capsule (cunningly hidden inside a cuddly toy) was open – I searched the house but couldn’t find the pilot. I opened my own door and went out. The woodlice at the invertebrate station scuttled about in brightly coloured frocks while I waited for the anteater to arrive to indiscriminately suck up everything in its path. After an identical twin journey I met the floppy hat god in his earth house and we turned the ground over. I came back talking to David (who was holding the hand of Goliath – Goliath had to go to the bank before he could shop).
I opened the childhood painted door; in a dream a young girl was laid on the ground tightly holding a lump of coal – she then ran up the embroidered flower garden. I watched her go and then, looking down, I found the scarecrow’s straw hand (forty years ago he knocked the door in an attempt to surprise the dog – the dog wore a Julius Caesar mask and surprised him). The prophet was trapped in the greenhouse after touching the plants and the gardener was tied to a cross. I checked all the windows to see if they were locked and then left my childhood to grow younger.
I carved a fairy grotto for my miniature Versailles out of a bar of soap while waiting for June to emerge from the bathroom. She eventually came out covered in hedgehogs; they quickly scuttled away when I approached. She went to her place of work and I went to the dark side of the moon and back. I then talked to a person dressed like a rabbit – he persuaded me to eat a bright magenta carrot; after which I painted an green sun in an orange sky. Under this sun (and in my purple mind) I saw the jester crack one last joke before the noose was placed round his neck.
As we had decided to be chess pieces for the day, June left wearing a (somewhat unflattering) horse head on her shoulders. A man with a case proffered fresh hay as she walked to work remembering the fallen from the First World War. I rebuilt the castle ramparts and watched a group of old world monkeys reading a new work by William Shakespeare through an arrow slit window. June was late home and I busied myself painting a scrabble word across my toe nails while standing in the shadow of an old boot. The dog went out with a snakes and ladders board dress.
I got up early to look through my brand new catalogue of household robots; I chose one with eight arms and a becoming smile (an intimation of the technological afterlife). June had climbed a hill with eight legs only stopping once to talk to a friendly centipede. After breakfast I walked the dog across a re–creation of the Battle of Cadiz – this was made using only a skilful interlacing of planks, each one higher than the last; once I was high enough I worked in the crows nest writing messages on the rigging. June emerged from the haircut horizon. I always forget to comment on new horizons!
I got up with an LNER locomotive circa Nineteen Thirties stuck between my teeth. The clocks had changed into the grinding molars of an extinct species of elephant and silent people waltzed down the street with hard back editions of the Strand magazine on their Edwardian shoulders. I headed for the Victorian air raid shelter just before my bow tie exploded. June and I then went out for dinner; London taxi cabs were spectacularly re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere. She ate too much and I drank too much; coming home with my head in a goldfish bowl and the fish acting like raised eyebrows.