A tractor has been parked in the city. Why is it here? Why are the big wheels at the front? A rumour circulates: it's been abandoned. Elbows swing to elbows, cupped whispers, shushful in ears. Will a crook claim the tractor and drive off, cackling?

The city has an electrifying nightlife scene which the tractor seems to seek to undermine. The tractor’s calmness is daunting of an evening. We try to have fun, adult fun, but its presence is unsettling. A colossal, ominous, brooding presence. Children hug the tractor and attach balloons.

Committees can’t figure out why its paintwork is pink one day, grey the next, then lime and so on. No, it’s not a different tractor, we checked. This chameleonic behaviour is never not unnoted in diaries.

The city’s unlisted buildings hate the tractor. They consider it life threatening. First one tractor, then ten, then green fields unravelling over pavement, lambs snowing down, scarecrows on corners, etc. etc. until buildings are knocked down for pasture land. Us city folk can feel the revulsion wheezing from their walls.

The tractor won’t be around forever, surely. One committee says it will, “Levitate for a month, a metre above the ground, then it’ll start spinning very quickly before drilling itself an exit through the ground.” This intriguing guess is the product of four appalling questionnaires, none of which have been filled in by anyone I know.

Someone who looks like a farmer has been arrested. She was roughly handcuffed in a supermarket. Talking in your sleep you say: “She’s just a normal lady who knows nothing about the tractor.”
A list was found in the lady’s pocket, seized, photocopied thousands of times and pointlessly stuck on luminous fly posters around the city:

milk 4 pints
cloves, tomato juice, celery

Tiny Finger Point