A Much Earlier Weekly Diary


I got up quite suddenly when the bed turned into a toboggan and hit a tree at the bottom of the slope. I felt more tired than when I went to bed but reluctantly pulled a weasel out of my hat and rode it to the local shop. I then pushed a mast into a loaf of bread and sailed down a previously undiscovered river which I named the Esmeralda after a gypsy girl I know. I got all the way home and then remembered I had forgotten the milk.



A day when I hardly stood on the ground at all, preferring to walk on scaffolding – much of which I built myself. After a moments thought I decided to call my haversack Janus and closed my eyes while it kept guard. Even so, I knew I was making a mistake when I prized open the King Fox’s mouth so I could pull out a string of chickens.



The garden was a helipad hand lying languidly on the bare ground. During the clear plastic evening I spun like an old fashioned record deck while the sitar players slowly propelled themselves into fold down boxes. The woodpecker demigod tapped out the cleaning hours.



After the ritual ceremonies initiated by the druids in the wardrobe, I walked to town several inches above the ground, only touching down when the phases of the moon dictated. I rode the biggest slug in the world around the edge of the galactic dish before throwing flower petals at the girl with a shield bug for a head. The evening was code named violin face.



A bad day; even the octopus, who sits on my shoulder in lieu of a parrot, thought so. I rather reluctantly descended the rope made from laddered tights into the medieval pits where older people wrote quotations for the young. I should have popped in to see Alexander The Great on the way out but didn’t. I eventually came to regret this.



I battled with monsters from the cut throat razor dawn to the serving girl’s apron dusk. I opened the single eyes as they fell on the doormat and kept a trowel in my top pocket so I could bury the bad news. The periscope in my top hat refused to see ships as I balanced a thirteen storey block of flats on a matchstick. The cigarette in June’s pocket recalled it’s meeting with Socrates.



An old fashioned nice day (which I don’t seem to get any more!) – I have heard that sentence before somewhere! First, the ancient Greek columns, each holding a lump of used chewing gum, needed dictating to. I then dusted my collection of dinosaur footprints as the fat mouse climbed the cat clock. Outside, Bugsy Malone took part in another fight – which he partly lost.


About Gerald Shepherd

Gerald Shepherd is a painter, graphic artist, sculptor, digital/multimedia artist, photographer, writer, curator and arts administrator. He has also been involved with science art, performance art, conceptual art, installations and environments (as well as peripheral creative pursuits such as garden design).
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