My Diary

June and I had a lay in on the back of a basking shark; it was so large we were able to proclaim country status each side of the white road markings – moving up the hierarchical tree I wished wars would not occur across double lines. June spent part of the day inside a revolving drum, her Tiffany lamp glasses clunking against the sides, while I went out into the garden as a French Legionnaire trying to invent a past I could subsequently try to forget. The insects had become as large as coffee tables and I hid a number of tea mug stains on the back of a worker red ant as I knew June would complain. Halfway through the day a lady rang from the top deck of a brigantine; June was left holding the conversation as I had become a sacred stone on the island of Lindisfarne.

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