What better to do than spend it being entertained by jolly clowns.
The children’s excitement levels rose when I mentioned our plan for the following day. Conversations were peppered with references to clowns;
4 year old - Clowns wear red noses?
Me - Yes
4 year old - Clowns have big shoes
Me - Yes
4 year old - Clowns are scary?
Me - No
and ...
Me - Would you like some juice?
3 year old - I like clowns. No.
Me – Stop feeding the dog Cheerios
3 year old - I like clowns. No.
Me - Time for your bath
3 year old - I like clowns. No.
The big day arrived.
An hour before we were due to set off Teacher friend mother of three called to say eldest child had pebble dashed her bedroom with sick. No clowning around for them.
I met our other friend and went in convoy to the venue, a civic hall in a Leeds suburb.
On arrival we coughed up three golden coins per person to someone who looked like a toilet attendant. We were directed towards a table proffering Fruit Shoots and bags of crisps. No thank you. We were then directed towards another table selling ‘tat’. Sticks with tinsel attached to one end. The 4 year old, a magpie in a former life, would have offered a kidney for one of those glittery sticks. No thank you.
We sat down, excited by the imminent clown show. We waited and waited … then waited a further 15 minutes during which time the children worked out how to fold themselves, and each other, into their seats.
Just as I was losing the will to live the show began.
We were introduced to Mr Clown, who funnily enough, looked like a clown … and his wife, who didn’t. It turns out that Mrs Clown had transformed herself from a coin collecting toilet attendant by taking off her tabard and applying bright blue eye shadow and a gold sequined cardigan.
I suspect they had been doing their show for 50 years and were using the same format and stage props as in 1969.
It was fairly cringeworthy. Mrs Clown mouthed all her husband’s lines silently to keep up with him and he told jokes which went over the children’s heads. The parents watched imaginary tumbleweed roll through the hall.
After 35 minutes the show ended. Relief swept over me, the children had lost interest 10 minutes earlier. Unfortunately relief was taken over by dread when Mrs Clown announced it was an interval.
An interval to flog more Fruit Shoots, crisps and glittery sticks.
The next half of the show, luckily, picked up momentarily when Mr Clown came on stage wearing enormous stilts which the 3 year old thought were amazing. Then there was some singing which sparked the 4 year old back to life for five minutes.
Comatose we left.
We had lunch at M&S to ward off evil clown spirits. It’s funny how a hot chocolate can make everything seem alright again. The queuing system at the M&S cafe is worthy of a whole other blog post but I don’t have the strength.
On exiting the car park I had a sign language argument with a woman in a Ford Fiesta about her lack of car park etiquette when she nearly drove into me the wrong way round the one way system. It seems the 'sing and sign' signal for unicorn is universal.
Teacher friend mother of three called to see how it had gone. We couldn't decide who was worse off; the mother at home with puking child or the mother at the clown show.
I like clowns. No.
Posts
