Dino Valente appears in the clouds, just weeks after Ray Davies appeared in Rastamouse.

I don’t know why the Japanese chick told me she was from the Philippines; except, of course, I do know – I just don’t appreciate it fully. With the Fourth of July rapidly approaching it couldn’t have been easy for the girl; images of flattened cities and other reciprocal evils plagued her breathless mind. She was smoking crap, and thinking about leaving; I offered her the keys to a pink Volkswagen Camper Van, but she refused, saying that she wanted to get dressed first. I tossed the keys down onto the bed and grabbed a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea from between two flowerpots on a windowsill before stepping out into the sun.

Immediately I saw Dino Valente in the clouds. He was perfect; his immaculate form accompanied by the elevating vocal ensemble of countless heavenly angels. He threatened to poison the military from within; so brave. Had Quicksilver Messenger Service been bigger, I’m sure the CIA would have earmarked him for assassination.

I photographed the scene of the apparition (over South London), knowing it would make headline news.

“I can’t wait for the fireworks,” she suddenly announced from the doorway, wearing only an oversized silk shirt, the sun filling her glossy dark hair with glowering prisms, “when the Phillies beat the Mets - it’ll be like Independence Day!”

Having momentarily appreciated her overwhelming physical beauty, I asked her where she was from.

“Singapore,” she replied.

Now, even her lies were inconsistent. I turned away.

The apparition in the firmament of the beloved psychedelic poet, Dino Valente, had occurred just a few weeks after I’d hallucinated (or so I’d believed at the time) the image of Ray Davies in an episode of Rastamouse. I’d taken a photo as it happened, and I’d been highly surprised to see that the image had come out exactly as I’d seen it (even though it is not a real camera, but rather a digital extension of my mind).

I don’t know why The Kinks’ frontman had landed himself a cameo in the CBeebies cartoon, but it proved beyond doubt that the show was not a negative stereotype (as certain writers in Voice Magazine – and well-known humanitarian publication, The Daily Star, had suggested).

Moreover, I was thrilled to be made certain that Rastamouse himself (not the concept or the show, but the "cheese"-hunting mouse himself) is not a racist. Although I remain a little perturbed by the lack of white guys in Rastamouse's social circle, I know for sure that Ray Davies - perhaps England's greatest living songwriter - would not have shown his face in a racist production, for childrens’ television or otherwise. You need only check out Ray's song, Black Messiah, to understand this fact for yourself.

I heard the jackknifed Japanese babe muttering something about the NBA Lockout as she settled into a game of Super Pac Man. I watched her as she became lost in the ancient handheld device; she reminded me that I’d once overheard a young guy – in a Chinese restaurant in South Kensington – telling six highly educated young women that his father had designed the circuitry for the original Pac Man machines. The kid had asked the girls if they’d wanted to see a picture of the old man (he’d had one ready in his wallet); I could see that none of the young ladies were in the least bit interested. They weren’t talking and they certainly weren’t eating; it was the worst Sweet ‘n’ Sour sauce I’d ever experienced, and the spring rolls tasted like brick dust.