My Diary

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.

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