A very early morning (although it would have been even earlier if the skeleton in the cupboard hadn’t turned off my alarm clock) and I caught a bus beside the Southern Railway steam engine. Changing where the guard changed I followed the sleeping giant valley to the fully awake giant village. The old man was holding a mechanical cat and pointing to a mechanical bird when I let myself it. I cut down a hedge for the Madonna and Child next door – accidentally calling them Isis and Horus in the process. I came home tied to a slice of toast and cart wheeled through the front door with a shopping bag in each hand. June popped in at noon and we talked of a legendary bird god and the transcendence of the individual as she handed me a baguette.
I had to shop in town (June had gone to an army parade ground during the time of conscription and met a line of men – machine guns hidden in the arms of their armchairs). As I descended the hill, one of many – although some I consider the half hidden bodies of naked people, I saw bonfire smoke rise through tree branches and I thought of a spirit permeating a statue; I shook hands with a skeleton while a long dead person put the kettle on. I placed shopping bags inside shopping bags and came home like a Land Rover riding on the back of a rhinoceros; I proclaimed all rhinoceroses to be land gods and all dugongs to be mermaids. When I got in, every pet animal, with the possible exception of an albino African clawed toed (who may need glasses), was staring intently.
I got up convinced that 3am occurred several times in the night. I dressed like a Knights Templar and looked at an image of the dining room of my childhood home which was fading fast. Disconcertingly I found a map on the palm of my hand but I couldn’t be bothered to follow it although I did remember that we rarely ate at the dinner table and the indoor fireworks were always a disappointment. A friendly octopus had gotten the shopping so I was able to strap myself into a painting chair moments after walking the dog and bequeathing an empty chalice to a local werewolf. I painted until June came home in a carriage made from the shell of a giant vacuum cleaner and having a canary bird cage for a head. The canaries sang as she removed her granny bonnet.
June left for work as I rose through the various floors of the house like a family heirloom through consecutive generations; I wondered what it would be like to be the filter of a king size cigarette and then spread my clothes on the floor like the ground plan of an Aztec temple. After throwing a horseshoe at a spike hammered into an artificial heart (the neighbours are worried about robot vampires) I walked the dog up a rope slung from a passing cloud; we both came down again with horns on our heads. I counted the number of bullet holes in a dead glove before resurrecting it as a present for June – who I had to let in after she accidentally swallowed her house keys.
Today was a semi-transcendental day which I celebrated on a scale model of Hadrian’s Wall pulling Roman soldiers from between the paving slabs. A man dressed like a penny postman walked by holding a sickle; we swapped road signs and I came inside. The house had already changed its clothes several times that morning and was trying on a pair of support tights while various chimney shaped hats paraded on its roof. I touched fingers with a friend trapped between the inner walls since Edwardian times and then went out into the garden again. Our neighbours were living in an overturned Greek urn and I had to pat their fish which they kept on a lead. When June came back from work I noticed the man with the sickle was heading home.
June and I found ourselves in the cockpit of a B25 Mitchell which must have crashed in the jungle; I called myself Doolittle and talked to the dog (she still has a few problems and wears the imaginary building site scaffolding with good grace). I spent most of the day in the garden, even though June had disappeared like twin engined smoke for all of the morning. We met again on the doorstep in the early afternoon and she gave me a table (she had vacuum flasks replacing the six guns in her holsters so I had to pretend to put my hands up – holding sugar lumps painted rainbow colours in my left hand and a child’s tea set in my right). As the weather men predicted it rained like a WW2 medium bomber strafing run in the evening.
June went to town to examine a packet of flying saucers which had landed sometime this week – she had an orangutan in her hair. I had a little earlier stuck a car exhaust in my ear (remembering I have got six to match my guitar string sensibilities) and walked to an underpass accompanied by a man with a road sign for a head. I noticed that one of his kin was practising Persian writing in the railway station car park when I passed by with a nude portrait painted on a soup ladle. Incidentally the person who served the soup had disappeared years ago but scientists have managed to sequence his genome and a bronze reproduction of his favourite cravat is on display in the V&A. I met June in town and accidentally discovered that she had a tributary of the Thames in her shopping bag.