June and I couldn’t go out as we were expecting the snowflake children to flutter to the ground; I was planning to capture one and show it to the ice princess - unfortunately she had decided to go out with the sun prince (and we all know what happened then). When I opened the back door an invisible pianist played a late Beethoven piano sonata on my front teeth; I had gone up the garden before the inaudible applause had started but on my return I clapped with cold hands from within a large clump of Chinese bamboo. I couldn’t face another concert and spent the rest of day indoors, painting with steam and sculpting hot air. I saw the monocled all weather god and was surprised when he bent a piece of thin wire into the shape of a clothed Lady Godiva on a naked horse.
We got up quite late, positioned as we were on the edge of the plate like two slices of fried bread. I looked up with tomato slice eyes: looking down was a female warrior with a sword - I would have mentioned this to June but she was in the process of placing two fried eggs on her temple. I would then have drawn a face disguised as a torso if all the paper hadn’t run off with a stray sheep dog and two legs hadn’t emerged from someone else’s handbag and started to scurry towards the door. We immediately found ourselves in a wood, the far end of which had a very large stained glass window. An angel dressed in white emerged from the prismatic background and floated towards us a foot or so above the leaf litter - remarkably there was more than five species of woodlice in the leaf litter.
I got up in a suit of armour after dreaming of an avenue of electromagnets - the bride and groom ran along it generating an electric current - as the bulb lit up they then went out for the day. In the real world I followed June around a field of bright clothes: next season’s colours among leafless twigs with London accents. I imagined bare arms hanging from the ceiling and bare legs rising from the floor - disconcertingly they in turn imagined me walking through brick walls with my feet in dried flower arrangements and my arms encased in swathes of over ripe fruit. We caught a train which had the Sistine Chapel replicated inside; I stroked my beard like Michelangelo and then pulled a bicycle from a sleeping tiger for an old lady who had the national anthem embroidered on her vest.
I got up in an unshaven morning, stroked my luminous beard and then went out in the surging slipstream of a passing plesiosaur. A woman was stood at the bus stop with one column of an Indian temple balanced on her forehead. The column was carved to resemble a girl with bare legs below and a body and head of a fish above - I imagined thought bubbles emerging from the fish’s mouth, slowly rising and then popping with a scream in the glare of the street lights. I had covered my fish tail legs with red brick trousers as I waited for the smoking chimney bus to arrive. I found it was populated by shop manikins and would have been deathly quiet if one of them hadn’t had a radio blaring. I met the old king in the great hall under a multi-bulbed chandelier - unfortunately there was a power cut.
I started the day as a comma but by the middle of the afternoon had become a full stop. June and I went out for the day, intersecting like lines on the National grid at dinner time. Travelling to the scene of a Civil War battle in an aquarium and then back home with an interesting pattern of gunpowder burns by rabbit hutch (I sucked hay while June sucked straw). In between we watched a city being built from fungal cytoplasm and its entire history being compiled from the bacterial stains on an otherwise clean floor. The cleaner said that all faces are just voices and as they age their story gets longer - I imagined my beard as long as War and Peace and called my shadow Pierre. I then dreamed another shadow called Natasha crept up on me, even though there was no body associated with it.
I had to go to the haystack palace with the werewolf prince quite early - Poppy consequently had a shorter walk: round a fez rather than round a sombrero. I then met a lady from my hedgerow days and we talked like cherry plums (they flower earlier than blackthorn) about people who keep their memories in matching gloves. I pictured a miniature coffin in an old shoe floating down stream while all the young sandals skipped up it on the bank (the old fisherman stood alone as always). I talked to the man who collected bottles - apparently he was going out with the lady who collected tops. I had only been home a couple of hours before having to go out again; the vampire king was holding court. I met June by the ox bridge (the old fisherman was still standing there - he hadn’t caught a fish).
I looked out the cold weather window in the house before looking out the warm weather window in my head - I keep a family of four inside as I am always wary of squatters, June had gone out the cold weather door sometime earlier. I felt a little unwell and surrounded myself with cardboard cutouts of tropical birds taking off which were kindly provided by Toulouse Lautrec after he had slowly melded with the intricate mammal patterning of our iron bedstead. The bed doubled as the bridge of a nuclear powered submarine during the North Pole hours: I am the commanding officer with lighted candles as earrings. June emerged from the relative heat of a naked mole rat tunnel while I nonchalantly photographed my feet with a polaroid camera and then stuck the images to the bottom of my jeans.