Wednesday 101st January 1078:
My bed, this isinglass tomb, with a basilisk at each of its five corners, is on fire again. It burns with the fire of hyacinths, lit last Lady Day by Muriel, the Alabaster Queen of my Pyjama-Case.
Hunting in packs who slink, sinuous as creeping simians, the miniature Postmen are abroad again. It is midnight and I am awoken by their breathing, their kitten-like cries. The feel of their tiny feet on my bedlinen makes me sweat. In the morning, I will awake to a pile of tiny blue letters addressed to my childhood self.
I dream that I am dreaming of a horse beheaded by dwarfs. The head is hollowed, and stuffed with horsehair. One of the dwarfs goes on all fours, bellowing like an ox. The others form a circle around him, a circle that tightens, then opens, to admit the giant nude Queen of Bavaria accompanied by Lambert Simnel on harpsicord. I dream that I have awoken to find myself asleep on a deserted shore. Waking too late, I drown in a barrel of ape's vomit.
Morning brings a darkness of spirit illumined only by a guttering candle. I visit my friend, Lob, who has a hippopotamus wedged in his sitting-room. It seems that the house was built around the hippo, who has remained ever since, friend to the succeeding owners of the property. We play Nine Men's Morris in the hall. Our game is interrupted when the hippo explodes, and the air is full of tiny papier mache models of Brian Cox and the Pet Shop Boys dressed as jockeys. Offended, I leave, taking the green okapi with me in a carrier bag. It is raining blood. Someone has stabbed the sky. On Thorpe Street, shoppers are being mauled by feathered hyenas wearing bowler hats. An altar-boy is being raped by a Vatican Cardinal outside an Irish Pub. I saw off my own genitals and plunge my head into a bucket of acid in protest at the lack of modern proverbs.