June had to go to work – she usually spends Wednesday in a coffee cup while I stride about the garden like Brunel on the Great Eastern. Instead I slowly walked her up the black road with a weather forecast for the Sahara in the glove compartment of my motorised anorak: apparently it is going to snow heavily at the end of the week. I then put a row of vertebra in my rib cage studio – I hope to beat like a big heart during the week. June returned just as I had placed the last milestone on the temporal road and waited for Dick Whittington to stop by disguised as a cat. She opened a book which was sat on my chair: against all expectations there was no one inside. I thought about renting it out to homeless trapeze artists as people with their feet on the ground wouldn’t see the view.