My Diary: My Hand Pinned To My Chest With A Semaphore Railway Signal

After a besom broom breakfast I strapped on my electricity pylon legs and marched like an old lady’s eye sore along the horizon straddling the Hampshire and Wiltshire borders.‭ ‬June had walked to work some time before with one hand stuck in a Women’s Institute home made jam jar and the other up the left nostril of a Pacific hagfish.‭ ‬I disembarked from a Venusian packet boat on the sulphurous shores of an island composed entirely of worn string vests.‭ ‬The island god was sat in clean underwear ready to go out:‭ ‬he had to travel along a route of recycled milk bottle tops while I worked in his garden planting small people who had escaped from obscure mythological stories when their guards were metamorphosing into wild west gunfighters quick drawing flower bouquets from their holsters.

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