My Diary

I dripped from the ceiling like wet paint and slowly run out into the garden. The flamingos had little men inside them; peering out of portholes in their sides. I rowed myself out to the railway line and back – this is where I lifted hot pieces of tin in my youth – I then raised the mast and formed a rain forest. I spent the rest of the morning hanging around.

Inside the marquee the mannequins were starting to move, I hid behind the beer stacks and practised my animal calls. I had reached the mating call of the three toed sloth before I came home.

Once home I turned into a chair again and someone sat on me.