My Diary

June got out of an early morning bed while I tried to stay in a late night one. The supernatural being I keep in a trunk at the bottom of the bed was cleaning her glasses even though immortals shouldn’t need them – I touched her ring as if it was a lock of Jean Harlow’s hair. We watched from between the werewolf vase and the vampire flowers as the little Frankenstein monsters arrived for the afternoon. We all travelled back in time as pink and purple fairies. In the town that both sides went round in the English Civil War a crane headed man mechanically lifted a small fragment of childhood high into the air. June rode a Victorian rocking horse and I sat on an Edwardian trike while a speeding train knocked the top hat off the nursery window.


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