There is a pavilion by the shore. I do not go there any more. I used to visit every day on my clomping horse with its rattling dray, and Iâ€™d hammer my fists upon the door of the pavilion set beside the shore, but I do not go there any more. I cannot go there any more.
I used to clomp along the lane lined by beech and larch and plane, but something went wrong in my brain and now I languish in the drain.
I languish in a drainage ditch. Iâ€™m smeared with grease and tar and pitch. Iâ€™ve lost the use of my lower limbs and at the mercy of verminâ€™s whims.
All sorts of vermin suck my blood as I lie sprawling in the mud, and others gnaw my skin and bones while I groan my dramatic groans.
Above me, a hot air balloon will be arriving very soon. Iâ€™ll be winched up by a length of rope, and washed with disinfectant soap.
The balloonist will sing rousing hymns to cure my withered lower limbs, and weâ€™ll hover in the boundless sky eating a snack of lemon meringue pie.
Then Iâ€™ll be dumped back on the lane, a few tweaks putting right my brain, and then I shall return once more to the bright pavilion by the shore.
Iâ€™m sure thereâ€™s something, before I go, that you are very keen to know. The balloonistâ€™s name â€“ donâ€™t be a clot! It was Tiny Enid, the heroic tot!Â