June is on a mid winter summer holiday (it is apparently its own and someone else’s season), catching up on butterfly jobs in our beetle pupa home. I skimmed pebbles across the top of the badly put together sideboard and watched them sink into the tidal drawers. June went to town using strands of her own hair as guides, I followed some time later using flashes of light off the top of my head. When we met she had placed her shopping bags in a circle and was awaiting a Hollywood Red Indian attack. I don’t really approve of stereotypes and came home on an early version of hovercraft (it stopped off half way and vacuumed a house). I noticed the people in the next street to ours were still besieging a castle while the occupants of the next street to them had only just discovered fire.