The Gimp

Yesterday, made up in my sailor suit and wig, a sort of grey mist overcame me as I assumed the persona of The Gimp. Admittedly this was partly because I had decided not to wear my glasses. This removal of the visual dislocated me, I could not fully connect with the 'real'. People's reactions either did not register or were blurred to a point that they did not affect me. I became undead, a sort of phantom. It was all a little disturbing. As the Gimp I'm not sure all of what I did and I fervently hope I will not be brought to book for my actions. Weirdly I am also simultaneously nagged with fear that I failed to do my job well, that I was unbearably hammy.

Later, after these surreal shennanigans, several of us retired to a nearby field to play with fireworks My final Launch, a day after the Americans sent their final shuttle into space, went off with only partial success. So far either the broadcast has gone out and the rocket has failed or the rocket has launched and the broadcast failed. However this and the ridiculous scale of my rockets both seem to have become the leitmotif of the project. Both of my attempts on this last day flew but failed to broadcast.






My companion has just sent me this photograph of Donald Crowhurst. It arrived without comment. There are no flies left now. Mr Pig sleeps soundly between us.