I awoke this morning and decided that I would run off to the circus. Well, it has to be better than what I’m going through at the moment, jumping through hoops and juggling whilst waiting to fall from the high wire into a net that isn’t there. Circumstance and events have conspired to make things desperately frustrating and sad, and the circus ring seems a far more palatable option than hospital visits.
I don’t know where they all are at this time of year but I’m sure that I could find one holed up somewhere if I look hard enough. I have this idea that the circus goes to the seaside in the winter, deserted places with tall concrete nuclear power stations, Dungerness or Sellafield. Huge expanses of gravelled beaches under even bigger skies with plenty of sea scrub for the horses to feed on. What matter if the lorries leak a little oil on the shingle? The sea with come in and lap it away when we are gone.
I’d have to decide what to be. Ringmaster is out – I don’t suit a top hat - and the days of the lion tamer are long gone due to the animal activists. I’m not strong enough these days to be a strong man, I can’t ride a horse and I don’t like dogs, so I guess maybe I could be a clown. Maybe a sad faced clown.
Of course I didn’t run away to the circus. I just put on my sad face and went to the hospital.