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.
