Ice cream, they have the nerve to call it.

Out on the lawn I saw them. Posing for the camera. Lots of cameras. Endless flashing. And a picnic afterwards, of course. Do you think I was invited? I was not. Staff only, apparently. Very convenient.

There's hundreds of them out there now, laughing and joking in their respective tongues. I could come to mischief in here, and no one would know until some time this evening, if even then. I have no faith in these straps holding me down. A child could escape them. I want cake and I want lemonade. I want to sit on a rug on the lawn and put stones on the corners of the newspaper to keep it from blowing away. I want to take off my jacket, roll it up and put it under my head while I take a nap, the laughter of children playing nearby wafting in as from another, nearby world.

But as I look at my hand- it's not even shaped like a hand anymore- I realise that my garden party days are far behind me. Who could have known that that picnic on the moon would be the last one, ever?