If we always had a long enough line we could forgo prose altogether.
Let that opinion stand for all those that have come before and expired.
What follows is a report, some of the content of which could also be
categorised as rumour. I heard reports of there being an elderly writer,
with a weak voice, present, but I was there and neither saw, nor heard
them. But the day doesn’t start with a gathering, rather the getting
ready. It starts with unicorns. Ideally, everyone would have a unicorn
but there aren’t enough to go around, and we only keep them to keep

Them safe. I’ve my own now, and arguably it protects me, as no harm
came to me during the earthquake, apart from the displacing of a straw
hat from its usual shelf; probably some lowering of dust. My unicorn
is small and well put together, with rainbow tail and mane, a strawberry
horn and mouldy mauvish fetlocks. Snowberry would be a good name.
Unicorns do not walk out of the bush like bushrangers or goannas.
They must be coaxed into existence, according to what I’ve seen.
Luckily, I was among some very good unicorn coaxers, at least

They took the fate thrust upon them with grace and industry. Labouring
towards a unicorn can take quite a few hours, but it is apt enough work
for Christmas Day, when there are no puddings left to stir,
and we have danced our all to Marvin Gaye’s ‘Got To Give It Up’ –
something I suggest everyone tries. A little outdoor disco on Christmas
morning is just the ticket I reckon, and helps the fruit cake go down.
A stump doesn’t need a speech if it can feature a dancer, a boogie
merchant, of which I can tell you there are nineteen humans,

One pre-existing unicorn, some arachnids, and insects, which count
but are not counted. I probably forget most of the day and the night.
Buttonholes are a thing: I wear a large watermelon-coloured dahlia.
And there are two more unicorns by evening, which makes us excited,
partly because of the inevitable unicorn race, which has no winner.
Two humans ride their destinies home, opining in their soft ears. Later,
I remember the night before, how the dead radio came to life, just after
midnight, playing both Classic FM and Clean Bandit’s ‘Symphony’.