As I got up, wearing clothes I had borrowed from a passing mermaid (I should have realised I would have problems with the trousers), I looked across our playing fields window box to see the weather gods playing games without knowing the rules. I thought about this and then thought about the left of centre politics of big grey clouds before having a breakfast of harmonicas and a drink of pasteurised music. I walked about the house blindfolded before attaching a search light on my forehead and going out; June followed a few minutes later to take the blindfold off – by then I had simultaneously gone under and over a bridge and met people I would never know. The paper darts of conversation were lost to both me and the man who had a pocket calculator for a face. I tried to calculate a smile.
June and sat I in the crying eye of a giant robotic saint (neither of us knew what religion it adhered too – although all religions are probably one to machines); she was wearing a manhole cover instead of a hat and I was dressed in the gate leading to an abandoned mine shaft – more than one person has told me it was exceptionally deep. She wanted to walk the long hand of a giant clock and I walked with her for a few minutes – the lady coming up the slope with a steam roller in her pram compared the minutes to the stick like figures in a Lowry painting. I joked that I thought they were the teeth of a long extinct shark despite feeling deep down that nothing actually becomes extinct but rather just jumps dimensions – I then jumped a puddle.
I got out of the barrel of an early Tudor cannon before June had shed (or even thought about shedding) her hauberk night clothes. I went downstairs with a map of the Low Countries in the Mid Sixteenth Century pinned to my front and a diagram illustrating the Bessemer Process on my back). A hand with more than ten fingers was clawing at the window as I strapped armour to my left arm and leg and floral patterned fabric on my right. I looked up at what I thought was a bunch of smiling heads (one of the pictures of heaven I have dreamt up likens it to bunches of sentient grapes – I am not sure if you can make sentient wine). June called out as is she was a mathematician and an endangered big cat and I looked up again – sure enough it had begun to rain.
I looked out of a medieval knight window in the dragon breath of morning (not knowing if I was an electron in an incandescent arc or the last thought of a dying sun – I counted the burnt out remains of my circling planets just in case). Outside was a cornfield of endless grey shoots; I imagined small figures trapped inside getting squashed by the force of the impact. As an experiment I placed one giant hand out of the window and then one miniature one – interestingly they both got wet. June and I had planned to go out for the day and had already donned our ocean liner clothes: I was the RMS Mauretania and June was going to be the RMS Lusitania but I told her not to. As it turned out we stayed inside a French Foreign Legion fort all day dressed as Tuaregs.
Unusually I was woken by the alarm (in our household a Hawker hunter breaking the sound barrier in a shallow dive within a glass case which once housed a relic from the second Defenestration of Prague). I got up with two heads, one of which I discarded in favour of a mane from a Lipizzaner stallion and rode like the wind (even though the wind was actually blowing in the opposite direction) across a railway bridge to catch the bus. I boarded a large black shape which almost disappeared in the large dark morning and changed shapes in a field of gigantic corvids – each of which was bigger than a modest retirement bungalow and thought of the past instead of the future. I subsequently met the personification of both the past and the future and we talked of the present.
I woke up inside a tree, refrained from calling myself a hamadryad, and then crawled out of the porthole of a sunken merchant ship from a non-World War. The man next door was climbing a ladder stuck in the middle of the lawn as I placed a hierophantic lizard on my head and read the entire life story of an interstellar pilgrim on its unwound tongue – I then unwound my own tongue and wrote down a row of numbers, the sum of which can never be an even number. The dog barked from inside a cat box and the rabbit grew Sellotape wings which stuck together when he tried to fly. I pictured heaven full of stuck up people and built a cave on the door step; going out for a drink when another caveman knocked the door – he was hoping to get a doctorate in philosophy.
June and I started the day as two separate words on a printed page (no matter how close I wanted to get punctuation always got in the way). I finally got up out of the slightly surreal story, moments before a giraffe in a designer suit ate the entire contents of a window box supposedly planted by Mahatma Gandhi as an act of nonviolent civil protest. I climbed onto the back of a white rhinoceros and promised to plant more nonviolent civil protests; partly as a man who eats mirrors and partly as a wild animal who paints pictures. I was swishing this idea around in the bottom of a wine glass (which was too large and encouraged immoderate drinking) when I decided, in a heavy rain storm moment, to take June out for lunch dressed as a sitar player in the middle of a red giant sun.