As requested, we sent in the clowns, with their bulbous honking noses and flappy clappy shoes. It was surely some kind of record for the number of buckets of confetti thrown, the volume of water squirted from fake flowers, and the volume of screaming children who would rather be anywhere else but here, but no one had considered the surge in need for traffic wardens, with ranks of ropey jalopies all over the shop. Outside the tent, a symphony of horns cracks the sunshine, like cheeky sealions riffing on Sondheim and Vertov, and you can’t walk in a straight line for wonky wheels wobbling across the pavement. Candy floss and custard pies will make us all rich. Come dance with me in the light of lions’ eyes. But where, you may ask, are the doctors and nurses? Where are the dentists? Where are the men and women to harvest those crops before they nod to rot? Where indeed are the fundamental givens upon which we built this whole damn circus in the first place? Don’t you worry your pretty laughing head. They’re bundled in the bathroom, slapping on the greasepaint to cover the tears.
Oz Hardwick