My Diary

I woke with the remnants of an octopus’s meal strewn across the bedroom floor. I swept it all under the voluminous skirt of a black cat fairy whose outstretched arms form part of the cycle way which circles the room like a smile on a balloon at the very point it is being burst. I removed the debris of a thousand shipwrecks from my hair and went to town with June curled up in my shopping bag sorting out the letters she wants to send to herself – she also found some she wants to send to me and pinned them to a portrait of Winston Churchill (sometime later Lady Churchill entered the room with her hair on fire). We ate a late breakfast inside a printing press – as we were being served a picture of an old man with a small dog fell to the floor – I was pleased when a young child bent down and picked it up.


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