I parachuted quite early out of our bedroom window, writing my memoirs as I floated slowly to the ground. When I had the mandatory trip round the garden riding in a fluffy cat chariot I dreamed I was living in a cake, trying desperately to rise up through the icing. NB. I had to go out twice during the day, carrying a lighted candle each time.
I started the day in a good mood, as castles perched high in the clouds drifted by, but ended it locked in a brown study - I took a brown book off the brown shelf and pretended to read it. The day was split in two like an open book. After I came back from circling the rim of a silver spoon for three hours I climbed onto stilts and painted a picture of a pillar on a pillar.
When I finally squeezed myself out of bed (like toothpaste) I was surprised to find it was shaped like a giant hand. I quickly checked to see if it was wearing a wedding ring. There followed a fairly typical morning with centipedes doing the washing up and caterpillars walking the dog. On the way to town I found a stray woolly rhinoceros and wasted a lot of time trying to find it’s owner. It is amazing how many cavemen live in my town.
I didn’t have to go out today so remained in the house modelled on one of the moons of Jupiter; it has round windows in the craters and the remains of ancient cosmological events playing around the radio aerials. Even though I was an old cuckoo in a forgotten clock I found time to fabricate a portrait of myself from fossilised twigs and an old pair of tights and rescue the puffball fairy from a vicious tool box ogre.
A Bank Holiday which I frittered away smearing mud on the faces of vanished warriors and listening to voices from my happier times which have always emanated from the carefully upturned flowers. I later tied myself to a twisted trunk and watched the sun girl play tennis with the moon dog - the star cat fell asleep on the armchair dreaming of it’s exam results.
A day spent entirely in the garden which I secretly pulled out of, an otherwise normal, sardine can. The sky was as high as a medieval hall as I pulled the tentacles of the kraken out of the sands of an Arabian desert. While tucking my favourite new world premonition into it’s amphibious bed I dreamed my wife had gone line dancing with a gang of marsupials in a floodlit aquarium.
I went to “Sky Lodge”, a holiday home for tired robots, with a handful of Nashville session musicians in my pocket - I heard a number of different songs simultaneously as I searched for my keys. It took me a little while to morph into a human vacuum cleaner while my young friends changed into mechanical canaries. I hoovered up the seed sown by passing celebrities as the sea climbed the highest mountain just for the fun of it.