As I approach the fairground, a salvo of popcorn, candyfloss, and deep-fried dough assaults my nostrils. Kilt down to my fattened-up wooden calves. Bagpipes bedecked with spirited hues. Blue and white patterns daubed on my face. Feeling good, looking better, I stride into the organisers’ tent.
‘Ben Leggy, st…’
‘What’s the weather like up there?’
The events coordinator laughs like he’s the first person to think it up.
‘Ben Leggy, stilt walker, at your service. The height of nonsense, higher than a haggis on helium, funnier than a fart at a funeral…’
‘Yes, yes. Quite. Go round the fair. Hand out these leaflets. Easy enough. Even for a…’
Before I answer back, he shoves a pile of photocopied papers in the canvas paperboy sack I used as a sporran.
Excitement and wonder at your doorstep. Circus Stumbeloni.
Melted ice cream and liquified candy-floss transform the ground into a skating rink, so I steer well clear of Mr Whippy vans. Three metres is a long way down. We stilt walkers are the underdogs of the circus, a one-skill job. Jugglers are the top dogs, even if all they ever talk about is juggling. Clowns either provoke a laugh or a beating up. The acrobats get laid.
The higher you are, the easier it is. Gravity and all that. But if you fall… Despite my ex-partner still being in traction, his droning voice distracts me from the teacup poodle. The moment the miniature animal raises its tiny back leg to golden shower my tartan clad legs, an impulsive twitch jolts not only my stilt-extended limb but also…
One rubber-tipped peg pirouettes on the ground while the other twists at right angles. The yelping dog zooms past my head as I spiral out of control in slow motion. A loud crack reminds me to reinforce the stilts before Saturday’s County Fair. Up is down. So grateful for my new kneepads. Down is up. The tarmac path rushes to greet me. I close my eyes…
A high-pitched squeaking shudder beneath my body notifies me the soft landing isn’t thanks to my quilted hip protectors.
Fairground Distraction
As I approach the fairground, a salvo of popcorn, candyfloss, and deep-fried dough assaults my nostrils. Kilt down to my fattened-up wooden calves. Bagpipes bedecked with spirited hues. Blue and white patterns daubed on my face. Feeling good, looking better, I stride into the organisers’ tent.
‘Ben Leggy, st…’
‘What’s the weather like up there?’
The events coordinator laughs like he’s the first person to think it up.
‘Ben Leggy, stilt walker, at your service. The height of nonsense, higher than a haggis on helium, funnier than a fart at a funeral…’
‘Yes, yes. Quite. Go round the fair. Hand out these leaflets. Easy enough. Even for a…’
Before I answer back, he shoves a pile of photocopied papers in the canvas paperboy sack I used as a sporran.
Excitement and wonder at your doorstep. Circus Stumbeloni.
Melted ice cream and liquified candy-floss transform the ground into a skating rink, so I steer well clear of Mr Whippy vans. Three metres is a long way down. We stilt walkers are the underdogs of the circus, a one-skill job. Jugglers are the top dogs, even if all they ever talk about is juggling. Clowns either provoke a laugh or a beating up. The acrobats get laid.
The higher you are, the easier it is. Gravity and all that. But if you fall… Despite my ex-partner still being in traction, his droning voice distracts me from the teacup poodle. The moment the miniature animal raises its tiny back leg to golden shower my tartan clad legs, an impulsive twitch jolts not only my stilt-extended limb but also…
One rubber-tipped peg pirouettes on the ground while the other twists at right angles. The yelping dog zooms past my head as I spiral out of control in slow motion. A loud crack reminds me to reinforce the stilts before Saturday’s County Fair. Up is down. So grateful for my new kneepads. Down is up. The tarmac path rushes to greet me. I close my eyes…
A high-pitched squeaking shudder beneath my body notifies me the soft landing isn’t thanks to my quilted hip protectors.
Lots of good sensory stuff here, Alan. The poor dog!