June and I went out, each in an individual glove (typically mine was missing the finger tips). We clapped our hands together at the train station and watched the train arrive like a dancer taking a bow before her routine had finished. On arrival at the moon palace we ate pyjamas and underwear before watching an underwater eclipse. A man older than me pulled himself out of the swamp with his prehensile moustache, prompting me to write a joke on an undertaker’s lapel thinking he would probably never read it. I watched June walk a mobile phone round the block while I held onto an empty bag in case its contents escaped and then spoke to a much younger woman - a disapproving vicar searching for his church descended by parachute: both he and it were torn at the edges.