Whilst you see things that aren't here, I see things that aren’t there. Fantastic kingdoms and creatures that, to the untrained eye, could not possibly exist; frolicking gnomes in my English Rose garden, monsters that lurk under four-poster beds, purple-ringed snailfrogs that swim in molasses and miniscule people that hang on a ermine’s eyelashes.
   But the real world? Ah, now that’s a real enigma! It is obscure and indistinct - a realm clouded and shrouded in swirling Scotch mist - like a single malt whisky (if you get my gist?).
   Let me introduce myself (not an easy task as I can never be certain of exactly who I am). Presently, I go by the name Herbaceous Border but my friends (those individuals foolish enough to acknowledge my existence) call me Herbie.  Herbie Border the artefact hoarder, champion of chaos and King of disorder.
   Amongst my prized and eclectic collection of priceless eccentric possessions are: a long golden lock of fair Rapunzel’s hair, a sou’wester formerly owned by Paddington bear, flies trapped in amethyst, bucolic rocks, the lid from King Midas’ charity box, a green Martian spaceship with one careful owner, a blanca once cherished by Una Paloma, a chest full of Alice’s best summer frocks and, as strange as it sounds, some second hand-socks.
   As the proverbial hermit I suffer terribly with perpetual motion; an obscure medical condition that causes unrelenting movements, thus - apart from the annual fee I am forced to pay for a travel permit - my entire and pathetically meagre bi-weekly income is frittered away on speakeasy shoes. Needless to say, this gives me the summertime blues, yet every Christmas I slip on a gaily-coloured cardigan I’ve never worn and open my old curiosity chest. I pack all my string vests and half the front lawn, an old wooden chess set (devoid of porn), my haemorrhoids, waltz and nasal corns, then hand them to a sombre-faced removal man. I always expect the fellow to arrive in a van and, in all honesty, should learn to suspect the worse for every year he arrives in a hearse. But alas! I'm the shell of the man I used to be for a crustacean has taken up residence within me. I'm all at sea. For it is a masked crab; akin to Batman (although - as I am unable to see the creature's face - for all I know, it could be The Sandman or even Doc Biro). What an utter disgrace; with pincers instead of fingers I find it impossible to tie my shoe lace.
   But I fear that I have digressed and really must continue with my packing of vests. For, having just checked the time, I find that the day has come that I must away to paint the world grey with a pallete of lime. I have waves to hold back and cakes to burn, mothers to smother and lovers to spurn. But fear thee not, gentle maiden, for the knight is young and before the pay rises I shall return.