I sat, squashed between a row of gardening books, on a shelf in my library. June got me down instead of a book and began to read; before she had finished (I hate endings) I showered in the garden and then took the dog out, me on a pogo stick and her on a mobile trampoline. We came out from the underpass with sore heads and on my return to the copper kettle house I diligently squeezed myself into a tin can to work. June sat with Poppy on a row of sardines: they collectively dreamed of being architectural columns holding up the widest viaduct in Western Europe. I thought they should be lighthouses shining vertically up into space - as I thought this a raven landed in the very centre of the amphitheatre and made a sunken galleon out of an electric violin and a piece of brain coral.