Recognition of colurless horses riding submarines

Bessy had managed to wriggle into the bottom of a pot of seeding compost. She has done it every year since 1998. At that time I thought she might be preparing herself for a 'natural burial' and wanted me to plant an oak over her. So I did and it took her a fortnight to re-emerge in a somewhat bedraggled state. These days she does it when I'm asleep or otherwise occupied. Margaret interprets her behaviour as one of optmistic germination in an attempt to come to terms with sweet peas she happened to rip apart in the summer of 1998.

Felix and some fellows cut down a few oaks and built a horse that was able to paddle itself beside Cold War submarines whilst looking totally innocuous. In this manner they collected all sorts of useful data on submariner attitudes to everlasting dark days when not encountering horses. I suggested today that there must have been all sorts of things the submariners missed out on. Felix suggested I keep my theories to myself in case of harming the 'National Interest'. This much-spouted phenomenon seems to me to be such a vacuous one that I didn't bother arguing with Felix that any theory of mine would have little impact on a national, or any other, interest.

It was with some relief that George had returned from selling contraceptive pills to late flowering roses in the Algarve. George was competing in a competition and it would appear that he won it. I suggested that preventing contraception between flowers was likely to bring us more dour and dull days. George winked knowingly and said that just because a flower bought a contraceptive, there was nothing to say it would swallow it. I guess colour will live on, until there's a competition to get flowers to devour the pills too.

Cookie was preparing Mr Billowellow for a trip to the colourful world of musical-lip-balm-sticks-hovering-over-autumn-ponds. I've never been, but Mr Billowellow and Cookie always disappear for the duration of the appointment leaving me to get on with the rather lonely task of treating his teeth. I don't mind if it keeps the patient happy.

I think there's something in the burying of oneself deep away from the outside in an attempt to come to terms with the colour one has, at some point or another, destroyed. Recognising the lost opportunities regardless of the consequential dry lips would seem to be an essential outcome. Does that make sense?