I felt ill all night. I had been washed up on a tropical island and was surrounded by bespectacled manatees searching through their family records in the hope of finding a king - I said there was more chance of finding a god, at which point all the palm trees grew legs and walked off. Outside a number of people walked down the street whispering at the top of their voices; the sound reverberated round my Saint Paul’s Cathedral headpiece. The ancient mammal duvet fell down as the dog skulked off to sit like a candle in an ice cave. June turned over before she got up. I heard the front door yawn as my De Falla body connected with the Sibelius floor. I bathed in iced tea and then took a transcontinental train journey to my study - I remembered the name of the singer just after the song had ended.