There was a gold-rush on and the Fox, bare faced liar that he is, sweet as mercury, ripe as freshly dropped fruit, ancient as a moon crater, watched from behind the stone wall.
Inside the room was a real elephant . And the room was small… I mean small. Like the rooms in “Being John Malkevitch”. And the elephant was a fully grown male rogue on a rampage!
But that was only yesterday. My story really starts twenty five years ago, July 3 on a warm, wet Spring morning, the rain evaporating in a gentle mist as soon as it hit the tarmac.
A bird landed on my shoulder, an event surprising in its itself, a ridiculously multicoloured songbird, but when it began to speak in English to me, well… I knew I was dreaming. Except l wasn’t.
We are on this Hill. It has no way out. It sits brooding while
the grey mist-curtain of ridiculously fine rain crosses and re-crosses the wobbly fields and just wishes it’s life away.