The chicken firm dispatched me early this morning: mission to fire-fight, or feed chickens, at a different farm, a similar-looking kind of farm to my regular farm. Little chicks scampered under my Wellingtons, and they were cute birds in the most genuine sense. I wore a paper suit, ripped at the groin through exertion, and had the appearance somewhat of an escaped murderer, or worse. Regardless, I delivered buckets of chicken feed [hoh hoh].
I am writing to you to fill the white space both on the page and between ears because again great fame has been thrust upon me. A short piece appears on the home page of London’s premier underground magazine which can be accessed here:
Not really fiction, more travelogue lovingly crafted last Monday afternoon, and also a pretty photograph of me wearing shirt and bikini bottoms etcetera xx
In fact here I am with chins