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.