I walked June to town after accidentally swallowing my electric guitar. We looked at the perpendicular movement of clouds while I played the opening riff of Foxy Lady using my tongue and tonsils. As a joke I pretended the clouds were building sites – the subsequent houses are sold with the catch phrase “only atheists go to heaven” – and earnestly informed passers by that all snowmen are made from concrete. I came home with two hands in my pockets and two more making pistols in the air – I secretly conceived the idea that every gunfighter is immortal and that time doesn’t exist. I had only just settled into the comfortable creative morass of my new studio when June rang asking me to collect the crocodile she was holding while she searched the swamp for more.