Well, there were some hairy moments (not least when ‘Kerbozo’ the clown made his debut bearing a rather dubious mullet, yellow zoot suit and a handful of knives) but we survived our trip to the circus both emotionally and physically unscathed!
Dare say I even managed to enjoy the experience. Frank certainly did.
Despite every intention of bashing out a picture heavy post on Saturday evening, I must confess that a) I spent the remainder of the day feeling as though somebody had rattled my brain between two tin drums and b) having forgotten the fast paced nature of the traditional circus, and being more than a little put out viewing the upshot of every act through the volitile zoom function on my meagre mobile screen, ten minutes in I though ‘bugger it’ and ditched the attempts at photography all together.
We were lucky (see ‘thrifty’) enough to cash in on a £10 ticket deal – by knicking a flyer off a car windscreen outside the flat – which allowed us to sit anywhere except ringside. As it happened the audience numbers remained fairly small, offering us an unobscured view and allowing Frankie to spend the majority of the time standing.
Being that he had point blankly refused a nap earlier in the day, a 4:30 start time was pushing it for a rapid descent into ‘grumpy pants’ territory, so having the capacity for a bit of idle wandering kept him ticking over until it all wrapped up just after six.
It also ensured I wasn’t in the position of having to purchase an over-priced, flashing distraction.
By far the wee man’s favourite feats were those of the gymnastic/arial variety – he did develop quite the fascination with a scantily clad blonde on a swing but the chap featured below just beat her to the top spot:
Two days on and I’m still having to step in and prevent him performing his own toddler adaptation on our modular sofa…
Personally I was blown away by the trampoline act which employed all the finer aspects of time-honoured physical comedy and excecuted them with some serious fucking skill – especially being that the performer, Mr Smith, was (as the name implies) a bespectacled gentleman of around fifty.
All in all a grand time was had at Circus Vegas, it’s rare I’m ever in the position of swallowing my words but in this instance I do so happily.
Not only did our afternoon jaunt rid me (mostly) of my prejudice towards the big top but it also afforded me a quiet evening when my over-stimulated, sweaty child got home, had a milky brew and passed out for the night.
Continuing somewhat on a theme of backpedaling and millinery-chomping, I spent my fortuitous free time discovering that yoga is actually pretty neat.
That, however, is a whole other entry.