...baby baby, please let me hold him/ I wanna make him stay up all night....
There is no reason that it should work, but it does. A kilt, sunglasses, a Rogues tee shirt, a pin-studded black leather biker vest and a real for sure Santa Claus beard ought to look terrible. He looks fantastic.
It's Festival time again. Outfits of all descriptions are on display for the next seven weekends.
Our bubbles are appreciated, and brightly dressed panto clowns sneaking through the village gets more attention than it deserves. We form a bright barrier between squishable patrons and working elephants, and provide a distraction while EMTs revive an overly marinated young lady lying prone on the path. But my naughty habit of baby-nabbing catches up with me at last.
A woman has seen me take a small girl up high in the air and return her unharmed. She brings her own child for a photo, then without warning snatches her up and shoves her into my unprepared arms. I smile grimly for the shot, managing not to stumble, then walk away. "Give my child back!" she shrieks. What? You gave her to me, this grubby, cheese-dust smeared urchin. GAVE her. The child begins to cry. I hand her over, irritated expression deliberately in place, brushing orange grime from my costume.
Hand ME a filthy child, will you? Not again, I bet.
(Stay Up Late; Talking Heads)
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