June was unwell and had slept in an air raid shelter all night. I had heard the explosions but never saw the aircraft approach. As she was fallen like medieval masonry I stood over her like a gothic revival arch - a small portrait of Augustus Pugin residing in a secret drawing in my writing desk torso. A number of tourists drew up outside and we endured prescription picnics and then initials scratched along the frown lines of our temples. After the push pull train had had left the branch line station I went out into the garden to blow up green balloons and hide them among the red undergrowth. It was hidden in here that I saw a group of mythological characters; several of which laughed hysterically as my ears grew so large they decided to walk off the side of my head and go back indoors on their own.