In our fourth installment, Pixi Robertson spins a tale of a clown in a situation which is definitely not funny.
By Pixi Robertson
Nobody, but nobody, takes a dwarf seriously, ’specially when he’s a clown. But this time somebody had taken me seriously. Very seriously indeed.
I woke up and found myself in the dark. Balancing on my head.
I’ve been in some pretty strange places in my time, usually because I wanted to be there. This time, however, I hadn’t been given a choice. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t have been here. Where ever ‘here’ was.
Round and round went my thoughts, going nowhere, solving nothing.
I had just woken up, I reasoned, but there again I could still be asleep and dreaming. Nothing about my present situation seemed to make any more sense than a dream. But there again, I could just be confused, standing on my head, wrapped in smelly clothes, and bouncing along uncomfortably in … what? Some kind of container? In some vehicle or other?
As my thoughts gradually cleared I tried to gather all these little snippets of information together, to sort some kind of logic into my situation. At the same time I gingerly savored various sore and aching parts of my body as, piece by piece, my limbs and torso regained feeling. And, unfortunately, began to throb in time to the pounding of a nearby engine.
Dwarfs have very short arms that reach, like a baby’s, only to the top of the head. This, I can tell you, is a distinct disadvantage. But now, in my extremely uncomfortable position, this fact was suddenly a bonus. My arms were wedged tightly against my ears and it was simply a matter of transferring my body weight from my long-suffering head and onto my hands and arms with very little effort.
Now I found I could move up and down for an inch or so. Not a great achievement, but it was a start. And with the weight off my head my nose seemed to regain some of its functions and I became aware of a distinct and well-known smell.
That evocative smell means two things to me: theatre, and circus. Well, I certainly wasn’t in a theatre. I knew I was in some kind of vehicle. Maybe I was in a circus truck. Made sense to me. Circus boy. Circus truck.
But was I, finally, out of luck?
A door clanged open. Light flooded the space. Dread filled my heart.
Circus / academia. Academia / circus … Pixi Robertson is a woman in 2 minds about everything – except her love of writing / books / family / friends / champagne / dogs / horses / elephants / big cats / flying trapeze (not necessarily in that order). Oh, and did I mention circus?
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