I got up early like a preface to a book that was never actually written. I caught the bus feeling like a crumpled paper bag that had missed the bin by a fraction of an inch. June now starts work later and was still at home practicing her dance moves derived from the movements of a candle flame in a cold draught. I had to change once (from the Elgin Marbles encasing a milk churn to a small crack in a concrete step hosting a maidenhair fern) and then met the old King - his throne had risen out of the arid plains like a termite mound. We talked like anteaters and I then retired to the garden where myself and my imagination hung like gibbons from a small tree. I came home in the smallest bus I could find - unfortunately it was late and I missed an unknown number of connections.