My Diary

I didn’t sleep very well and got out of my seashell bed with a fish tail covering my eyes; I tried to swish it away but ended up doing several lengths of the pool instead – even though I can’t swim. I noticed, as I looked up, that June was standing on the springboard with the raising of the Mary Rose depicted on her swimsuit – I would have preferred the Bayeaux tapestry myself. She plunged into her coffee cup as I ironed my underpants with the traction engine that had appeared in one dream and then slowly trundled into another, pulling a ploughed field as it did so. After June had diminished in the distance I painted like hanging washing, only stopping when I run out of pegs and a stranger pressed his face against the glass; turning a smile into a barren piece of ground.


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