I strode out of the early door wearing snakes and ladders as travelling clothes. I went up the hill to the tavern stop and down the hill for my countryside connection. The occupants of the rookery had moved from hot air balloon grumbling to radial engine chattering while an old blanket was pulled off the supermarket found sleeping under the disused railway arches. I met the winter king and we listened to the trees sigh as native birds looked up the definition of transcendental before singing songs about smiling faces in very old photographs. As the curtain people crossed a viaduct of broken cameras we passed the time by writing messages on each other’s shirt fronts; I pulled a scribbled over playing card from his top pocket and he pulled a bag of corn from mine. I subsequently used the corn to follow myself home.