If I was wearing yellow cable-knit knickers and a miniature sailor's hat with clown dots of eyeliner under my peepers, today would be very different. I would be carried off by an enormous handful of indigo balloons, over the rooftops, over the harbour and into sunset-stained clouds. Up there I'd greet other adventurers, most of them wearing 1920's aviator style garb (leather skullcaps with glass-bottle-bottom glasses would be mandatory) and unlikely companions would drift past- an elephant, chewing absent-mindedly. Maybe some goldfish, swimming through the atmosphere so that the sun deflected off their scales, the brief glare rising like a chorus.
If I was wearing a multi-coloured quilted jacket and a turquoise blouse with daisies printed on it, I'm pretty sure I would be found lying in a field of wildflowers. Gypsy caravans would trundle by, their weight leaving twin paths in the long grass in their wake. The tremor of their journey like the rush of blood through veins, the harmony to the deep beating of the earth's heart way, way, deep down beneath my ear. The sailor's hat fallen off and forgotten, wild violets tangled in my hair and crushing under me so that the scent of them intermingles, becomes inseparable from, the still afternoon.
If I had a smile halfway between a laugh and delight, then this day would look entirely different.