The Amazing Scarpetti featuring Alliterative Assistant
I was a spoddy little child really. I preferred reading and drawing to running and jumping. Still do actually. This meant many trips to the library (remember those, kids? Make use of them while we still have a few left), and one of these trips resulted in me coming home clasping a book called something like 'Clowning: Learn to be a clown in 25 easy clowning lessons for clowns' so that I could learn to be a lion tamer...no, wait...I mean a clown. I learnt how to put on a clown face. Except we didn't have face paints as such, although Mum was perfectly delighted to lend me her blusher and foundation and eye shadow and lipstick. Well, I am sure she would have been had I asked anyway, I mean, when she saw me she did say 'Oh, fine, just help yourself to my expensive make up without asking, no one ever asks me anything anyway', so I assume she was happy. The book also told me how to make clown clothes, but that seemed like hard work, so I just borrowed my Dad's red dressing gown and his slippers and made my brother wear my Mums. Then there was a chapter about juggling, but that seemed to complicated, and anyway, all I really wanted to do was the egg smashing trick, so off to the fridge I toddled.

And I was ready to go. I told Mum and Dad to sit on the sofa and sent my brother on to the 'stage' (the living room rug). He had his instructions, he was to stand around looking stupid (he won't have found that tricky) and wait for me and when I walked in he was to turn and face me. I'll give him his credit, he playe his part to a tee. He looked spectacularly stupid in Mums flowery dressing gown, fluffy pink slippers and with blue eye shadow spread liberally across his face. He turned at the right time as I pretended to trip over the edge of the rug and smashed two eggs straight into his face. I expected applause for my hilarious trick, but the turmoil around me as my shocked brother cried, my mum shrieked, my egg covered brother screamed, my mum swore, my yolky brother ran, my mum chased him all came as a surprise. And I was plagued by a nagging doubt that I had done something wrong. After a severe telling off, a dressing (and washing) down, I was dispatched to my room in disgrace where I picked up my clowning book and read in more detail how things were supposed to have gone. Ah, yes, I was supposed to make holes in the ends of the eggs and blow them first.

Still, it wasn't all bad. My Dad hadn't been able to help with the clean up operation because he couldn't stop laughing.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 24 Aug 2011, 9:28, Reply)