Friday and the crocodiles had the day off. I performed the dance of the seven veils in a pretend underworld and then turned myself into a naked page onto which words could pin themselves. June had already taken her scribbled page to work (the big black birds spiralled upwards and the raven on the desk had changed her dress). After writing in underwater verse I underwater coloured on the unblinking screen; the waterfall in my head kept the small men in barrels in mid air as long as the flying monkeys wanted. Towards the end of the day I asked if the monkeys wanted anything else; I was holding the complete works of Shakespeare but they only needed a drink. I had already found a fashion model in a bottle of French wine and now there was a dog on the cat walk.