My Diary

June left the house with her cold streaming behind her. I packed away my papier mache severed heads from late Seventeenth Century France and took the washing machine out for a walk; the dog, who was trying to catch her own tail, went to sit behind the television wearing a mortarboard hat – she quickly hid it when the front door opened and a young girl disguised as a small table with a bowl of fruit walked in. I smiled and read her a story from the electric meter; I was going to read her a gas meter story as well but found she had fallen asleep. Later in the day I finished off a painting of street lamps seen from afar in the dead of night and then walked to town to meet June who was trying to read the message on a light bulb with a torch.


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