My Diary

June and I went out for the day, she was dressed as a small part of a slowly moving river and I as a hydrothermal vent. We walked round the tapeworm shops like corralled animals; I felt myself getting slowly smaller although, as always, my imagination remained the same height and even bought itself several pairs of jeans and a pair of Celtic patterned flipflops for a future summer (this has lasers firing from smiley face bikini tops and a giant mosquito bite for a beach hut). As the railway carriage evening approached the station June rode into the distance on a replica of John Wayne while I, in the film between the adverts, shrunk to almost nothingness like the remnants of a storm-riven seaside pier childishly protruding above the grown up waterline.


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