I am in a theatre company, the Knights of Honiton. We are on a rooftop Paris terrace being interviewed from the street below. It is inspiring. I am suddenly filled with ideas. Ideas like staging theatre on scaffolding around buildings, theatre in balloons, and something to do with bacon drag racing. I am excited.
People offer me work, but the benefits aren’t as good as what I get now.
I show Mick Voo some large photos of fungal crystals I found in a flower bed. It looks like I’m laying out a stall. A woman is selling a huge bike chain. I think it was jewellery for a giant.
The troupe head off to catch a bus into the big city. I am delayed by a woman who is convinced I’ve left something behind. It is a large flat paper Christmas tree, I thank her for her concern and run for the bus. I can’t believe it when it leaves without me, just before I reach the stop.
Later, having written and completed our performance, I fly into the sky, bouncing on sofas that block the street. I pass a disorganised brass band, and a baroque quartet playing ancient instruments, including tuned ceramics. I enter a building and am guided from behind by a woman dressed in white. I can only see parts of her face, a blue eye, a lock of ginger hair. She’s an angel there to protect me.