My Diary: The Pot Of Basil Without A Head

I grounded myself for the week and locked the cockpit of the vintage jet plane I usually pilot:‭ ‬it first flew in the early fifties and was designed without swept wings‭ ‬-‭ ‬this means I stand relatively still while the clouds go supersonic.‭ ‬June is back to work and had gone up the road pulling a small figure permanently stuck between a frog and prince.‭ ‬Apparently a lady got out of a taxi and gave it some loose change‭; ‬the car was driven by a man in a bird of prey costume and drove off at great speed.‭ ‬I went out into the bare foot garden to polish and paint nails,‭ ‬only coming in when a man knocked the door wearing footwear from the Anglo-Saxon period of English history‭ ‬-‭ ‬strangely we spoke in Romano-British words even when he accidentally knocked over one of my prized ornamental pots.

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