I got up as if I was sudden explosion in a tranquil lake; scattering a flock of small brown birds, new to science, as I did so. June had just left for work using electricity pylons as legs and wooden washing tongs as arms. I closed the bedroom window telekinetically and then had a bath without getting into the water; floating downstairs with a mangrove swamp turned orange by the rising sun as my hair style of the day. I wrote my life story on a stamp and then licked it - I planned to stick it to the hull of the next nuclear powered submarine that rose in the Arctic waters of my imagination but June had left the heating on. The delivery man coopied down like an early representation of an Iquanodon, getting up quickly when he realised his anatomy was wrong. I signed the sheet with the wrong end of the pen.
Gerald's Rather Strange Diary 