My Diary

June and I pulled our heads out of matching slippers and our feet from a set of ornate chimney pots – a short time before they had been sat like owls on our Spanish Galleon roof: I had told everyone they were really petrified sighs emanating from those trapped inside. Although June was on holiday we had crawled out of our rabbit warren early and walked a cat box to town. We had a meal in a foxhole and then came home inside each other’s coats. I painted infinity while June pulled the washing from a top hat; outside in the garden a skeleton played a drum kit (I made a note to collect the remnants of the song in a body bag). As I tidied the drive a woman with her personality in her handbag approached. I had a door handle on my forehead but didn’t let her in.


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