I pulled myself out of my nettle patch bed with a dock shoot behind my ear. June was still in an arable field readying herself for a walk to a progressively barren place (as usual in a well practised semi-transcendental state). I turned my thoughts inside out as if a starfish digesting its food and then went out in the same highly convoluted state. On my return, with the dog as a free gift in a mens magazine, I quickly waxed the garden legs, pulled silk stockings up my arms and painted with the tips of my high heels. From writhing threads I made a fabric and then the clothing (not a very good fit as usual) and from a rushing rabble of words I made a painting - a terrestrial octopus in the corner of my studio was busy getting nits out of a gorgon’s hair.