y Like Railway CarriagesJune went to her place of work with the forbearance of a Samuel Pepys quill pen while I wrote myself off the end of the page and into the garden (I can’t give any more details as I was written in cipher). I lined up next to some small bushes to form a parade ground hedge; a young boy with a boomerang smile stood as the gate. After a runaway retinal image of Lucrezia Borgia floated over our heads we were all suddenly reduced in size; I found myself in a box of knick-knacks arm in arm with an antique fairy - we talked like rosewood marquetry in a mahogany cabinet. June came home much later to find me up to my navel in words; the more I talked the more I was stuck. She finally managed to get me out by rigging up a pulley system of profound silences.