I don’t know what you think about circuses. To be honest, I’ve never been a big fan. When you really think about it, is there anybody in the world less funny than a clown? And what can you say about somebody who has spent half their life learning how to balance thirty spinning plates and an umbrella on their nose? Okay. It’s clever. But there simply have to be more useful things to do with your time! And, for that matter, with your nose. There was a time when they used to have animals—lions and elephants—performing in the ring. They were banned and I have to agree that was a good idea. But for my money they could ban the rest of the performers too, and put everyone out of their misery. I’m sorry. I’ve heard of people who have run away to join a circus, but speaking personally I’d run away to avoid seeing one.

But that said, I had to admit that the Russian State Circus looked interesting. It had parked its tent right in the middle of the park and there was something crazy and old-fashioned about the bright colors and the fluttering flags all edged silver by a perfect November moon. Four or five hundred people had turned out to see the show, and there were stilt-walkers and jugglers keeping the people amused as they lined up to get in. As well as the tent itself there were about a dozen trailers parked on the grass, forming a miniature town. Some of these were modern and ugly. But there were also wooden trailers, painted red, blue, and gold, that made me think of Russian gypsies and Russian palm-readers—old crones telling your future by candlelight. Tim had had his palm read once, when we were in Torquay. The palm-reader had laughed so much she’d had to lie down . . . and that was only the contents of one finger on his left hand.