I woke up walking and I was half way along the plank before I took the budgie coat off the hanger and put it on. June and I went to short hair mountains where I worked in a cave. The afternoon was a grey wig and I surrounded myself with small pieces of paper with pencil marks on them. The rain later filled my bowler hat.
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.
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.
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 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 descend 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.
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.
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.
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.
The alarm went off inside a marsh mallow; Poppy, the dog, took off her pyjamas while I made a World War Three sentry box in the bed. The caves were quiet and I roasted memories in cans strung on string. Pipe Man visited and we held up the traffic in the kitchen while June, my wife, held up the stagecoach in the parlour. I wore a skirt for the evening.
The morning was wreathed in buttercups - hands were removed from breast pockets to grasp them. The ladder leant against nothing and cast man like shadows. I pulled the room apart to form a field and walked out in it until the weather (still walking on stilts) changed and the rain man danced. I danced with a lady who had a mobile phone for a head.