After walking the dog along the dark grey lines in the middle of a white road I climbed the lipsticked stairs to the derailed railway carriage I spend both time and space in. June was out all day walking old people around the perimeter of a beret thrown down by a member of the French Resistance during a practice for the third world war – all the people went down the road in silence even though their mouths were open in the act of acute laughter. The pavement was wearing spectacles as I glanced down with a summer landscape for a head. A passerby stopped to smell my roses. By the time I had written letters to a scourge of ladybirds and a plague of locusts the night had brought the house down. I watched the audience leave like Venetian gondolas in the D Day landings.