I got up just as the organist in the roof pushed his foot down on the pedals and simultaneously a giant nose pushed through the bespectacled brickwork to make a face. I went downstairs quickly in case it started to sing. June was dressing in the armour of Henry the Eighth and then caught a train of thought to town. I stayed in the station wearing chain mail and eating my breakfast with the distracted air of a mermaid in a net. Outside the bare torso of countryside moved and ordered another drink; the barman threw words like felt hats, one landing on my head moments after I had been cast away on an island in the middle of my tea cup. June returned home as the sound of the anatomical conversation subsided. I laid down as my shadow stood up.