In the imaginary window at the top of the insect leg stairs I conjured up a wood with people painted on each tree trunk; my tree had fungi looking like a pair of spectacles and cats and dogs in opposing branches. When I climbed down I took a trip to a medieval town to meet an old giant. We talked about holes in stone figures where hearts should be and how many ants it would take (end to end) to cross the wardrobe I keep my trench coats in. We paused to reflect on the insanity of the trenches and then the bus turned up. He saw people dressed all in white while I hid in a milk churn; I came out some time later labelled as double cream in a single cream world. After a short period to unfold our wings we caught the bus again, followed by an army of old cats.