So I went to the circus. The antics of the clowns were truly inspirational and I felt motivated to improve my own (somewhat mediocre) clown skills. The complete lack of grace as they tossed custard pies at each other was moving and the cacophony of nose honks towards the end almost had me weeping for joy. If it wasn’t for Matron poking the beejeebus out of my ribs to keep me from drowning in a pool of my own saliva, I think I may very well have brain melded with the deliciously pink fluffy bunnies of nirvana. And as they prized my fingernails out of the freshly gouged grooves in the concrete as we left, I remember mumbling repeatedly that I’d one day take to the stage in a secret life and live out my days as one of the world’s foremost entertainers of children.
Yup.
That was definitely the plan, anyway. But like most things, those plans have a terrible propensity for disintegrating into little blobs of molten fish finger juice that get stuck in the types of crack that no dish cloth can purge.
My juggling has improved leaps and bounds since my last knife juggling attempts and I only lost two fingers this time. I’ve found I’m a complete natural at tripping over my own vastly over-sized shoes and my trousers almost fall down as far as my knees if I gyrate my hips for about seven minutes – impressive indeed I think you’ll agree.
But when Matron spotted me squirting weak lemon drink over the children in the observation gallery above the correctional mental equipment room, I was duly harpooned and force fed sixteen black pills (the ones with the faint sound of Kylie Minogue if you insert them in your ears). I remember nothing apart from thinking that I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky… lucky.
I awoke in my cell.
I may be here a while.
Matron was most displeased.
