Balloons drift across the city, a parade of miracles and juxtapositions: a fairytale castle, a teapot, a full-rigged galleon, and a chubby orange baby. My unmoored thoughts ignite and rise, and I press my nose to a porthole to look down on houses, shops, factories, cinemas, churches, and libraries. Tiny people wave and I wave back. I pour myself a cup of gunpowder tea, and I savour the smack of smoke and seaweed, as steam touches my cheek like a lover would in a 50s costume romance. The moment takes my hand and leads me to an arched oriel window that overlooks a landscape of mills, leats, bold knights, fair maidens, fiery dragons, and ruddy-cheeked villagers. Tiny people wave and I wave back. But where’s that orange baby, fat as a toad’s butt and full of hot air? He’s on every phone and TV screen, on the cover of every paper. He’s squatting in the castle tower, bursting balloons.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
Thanks to Eugen Bacon
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