I went to the fern frond capital city of Echo Land before the blind was pulled across the night sky. I engaged in a long debate about which towns look best wrapped up in string vests with the old voice from the armchair – searchlights from ancient adventures still streaked in the living room – and I came home with visions of broken teeth reflected in pools beside windmills.
Today was a strange day and I never found out what to call it. I called the evening Emily (it called me Christopher Robin) and diligently sorted out all the sparkles on the surface of the sparkle machine. I pulled a rope home, remembering all the people who were never in when I called. Once inside, I swam in a glass of red wine which had been stirred with a tuning fork. I settled down to sleep in middle C.
It was another scissor dawn as my wife turned into the vapour from a crocodile’s nostril. I laid sellotape across the garden while the sky jellyfish floated over head. Most of the documents were filed in the heart of cabbages as I paved my own path to the bottle bank where hobby horse people pretend to give blood. The evening was contained in a recyclable can of silence.
I was shot into the air by a giant spring at point zero of the flash light morning. I sanded down the scratch marks on the wall and walked the dog to a place where the start is also the finish. After discussing the calls heard in the night with a vociferous Toby jug I came home and tied myself into a knot. There were no scouts around as the lift descended into the pit at the end of the day.
When the telephone rang I woke and found myself spread out on a giant hand. I shook it and watched the news on a wedding ring television. By noon all the ladders had descended from their roosting place in the ceiling. I had already walked the dog to a crater on the moon and back. We were not allowed to feed the ducks.
Poppy and I went for a long walk (this after going up a ladder and coming down a snake) to the younger person lakes – the first time since an older age set in. The dog wore sandals and I was dressed as a Spartan soldier. All cars travelling to Artists Way had big grins attached to their bumpers. I went out alone in the evening.
It was my usual boat trip across the desert in the morning. I embraced joviality in the Giant’s sitting room and unpacked an imaginary bag. The journey home was shot from a bow and I arrived home to see the apple split in two. I ate a slow pie in the non urgent afternoon and went out this time as two people.