My Diary

A very early, kitchen table leaning, morning. I caught the croissant vehicle by the edible public house and met the old king on another slice of toast. I called myself the old pretender (the young pretender having driven off on a Triumph motorcycle: circa 1925) and looked at myself at various times simultaneously. I was honoured when an early beard was proclaimed to be a lost map of Atlantis but somewhat deflated when a later one fell in love with a hedgehog and hibernated in an old petrol can. After closing the last colour coordinated book I came home between the folded wings of a butterfly. I had to walk Poppy, complete with a bejeweled mediaeval town on her back, before I was able to get into the cockpit of a Gloster Gladiator and help save Malta.

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