June pulled herself off the plastic aircraft kit sprue (I think she was part of the undercarriage) before I had emerged from my tub of wooden bricks. She was morphing into a pattern on the floor when I descended from our nimbostratus cloud bedroom. I had purposely dressed as a zebra but we, of course, greeted as giraffes. I went into the garden as the silences in a piece of music and stayed there most of the day, counting the number of eyes in a peacock’s tail and then waiting for them to all close in turn. June had gone shopping dressed as an early form of pyramid and subsequently came home as the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus. As she pulled a wine bottle out of a pencil case I piled paper thin memories on top of each other - always aware that a sudden draught would blow them apart again.