My Diary

It felt like a premature Spring as I chased shadows round the sunless garden. June wrestled with clothes that had been miraculously resurrected during the night (it was rumoured by a Chaucerian pilgrim although I favour the Wife of Bath); they had tried to escape until tackled by the dog who was trying out a new style of Maori war paint at the time. I stayed in the question and answer garden most of the day; my longer sentences grammatically corrected by tea breaks and the visit of a family of vampire bats who flew in wanting batteries for their clockwork toys – we collectively flew out to the shops like leaves liberated by the sudden opening of a long shut door. As if to celebrate the continuum of existence June slowly cleaned the glass separating us from our remotest ancestors.


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