My Diary

I slept very badly in a tennis match night. June tightened the net in case I won the game and wanted to jump over it (she should have known I would always crawl underneath – usually holding onto a model soldier from a reenactment of the Battle of El Alamein). When the cordite and smoke had settled – and I had pulled the plastic alligator with snapping mouth out of the marsupial pouch I had been wearing on my abdomen in lieu of a painting of the Forth Bridge – I walked to rain town like a soldier who had forgotten to stop marching. I had to take June past the man sheltering in the underpass with a bag of dirty washing – not all his own. I told him I never wear clothes only the flags of the fifteen countries still extant in the Twenty Second Century.


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