Chapter 226: The Odd Ones

 

The Odd Ones – Finding Flow

“The Odd Ones is a show about the differences of people. A social and physical dance about finding your place in a group, being authentically you, and about the adaptations we all have to manage when being with others.”

 Simon Granit Ossoinak, director and co-creator with Stasy Terehhova and Cristian Boscheri<
co-produced with Circusstad, and Perplx, a circus production hub and workspace for contemporary cirucs in Flanders.

https://www.simongranit.com/creations   For The Odd Ones video trailer on Vimeo click here..

It was a school night, and I was exhausted. My Year 10s have been practising dialogues about turning down invitations, and I had every excuse lined up myself: recovering from back surgery, lessons to prep, books to mark, supper to cook. Only curiosity won. 

The title The Odd Ones had me from the start. Circus is full of odd ones, my tribe of free spirits exploring the edges of what’s possible. And there was more: a long-overdue catch-up with Ade Berry, Artistic Director of Jackson’s Lane, and another dear friend, Lucy, a fellow teacher and circus lover who had never yet seen a show there. The promise of a large glass of wine, good company, and something strange and beautiful tipped the scales.

Lucy and I sank into our seats, two weary teachers on a school night, and of course a family of four children settled right in front of us. I nudged Lucy, and she winked as if to say, “So much for our night off!” The glimmer of a grinch was short-lived; the kids were immaculately behaved, eyes wide with curiosity. When their mother turned round to ask what was happening after the show and I mentioned the Q&A, her son’s face lit up. “That’s like behind the scenes?” he whispered, as if I’d handed him the universe’s best secret.

The lights dimmed.

Simon moved first, gliding diagonally across the floor, hands and feet crossing in counterpoint as if rewriting gravity. Perhaps it was knowing his Finnish heritage, my mind leapt northward to Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights, to the mulefa, those strange wheeled creatures whose movement is both awkward and sublime. Then came Stasy, spinning serenely, a whirling dervish lost in her own orbit. Cristian followed, hesitant and angular, all elbows and knees, looping a strap round himself until he tangled in a gangly knot. If Mr Bean had studied under Alexander Vantournhout  (see post Chapter 129 on Aneckxanderr) this would be his act. Deadpan, elastic, and utterly captivating. The audience chuckled, drawn in.

The opening unfolded through solos and duets, one performer always slightly the odd one out. Cristian’s awkwardness marked him first, but what struck me wasn’t his oddness so much as his awareness of it. Stasy’s otherworldliness offered counterbalance, coaxing him out through quiet grace and warmth. Simon, by contrast, was a storm of cartwheels, flips, and lightning energy.

As the show evolved, their quirks began to echo, overlap, and finally blend. They mimicked, borrowed, and absorbed one another’s movements until difference became dialogue. Cristian’s journey wasn’t about changing who he was but recognising his own power. Stasy grounded the chaos; Simon fractured and reformed the rhythm with impulsive energy that drove the dynamic forward.

I really enjoyed how the show carried the imprint of street theatre and that direct, unguarded dialogue between movement and emotion. Cristian’s breakdancing brought a raw, syncopated energy that made his awkwardness even more expressive, speaking in its own rhythm, a physical language that slipped between vulnerability and humour. He’s an extraordinary physical actor, disjointed yet fluid, comic yet tender, folding the rhythm of the street into the discipline of the stage.

Beneath it all pulsed a score of loops, synths, and heartbeat rhythm. In the Q&A later, we learned the composer Stijn van Strien (see soundcloud - click here) had spent two decades as a DJ, and you could feel it. The music didn’t accompany the piece; it shaped it. The performers moved with and against its current, sometimes gliding in sync, sometimes breaking away into silence. That conversation between beat and body, pulse and pause, became its own choreography.

Cristian and Simon wove through one another, arms and legs interlaced in a human puzzle, pausing in mirrored curiosity as if to ask, “Where do I begin and you end?” Stasy crouched low, testing her balance, then Simon lifted her, placing her lightly on Cristian’s curved back where she hovered in improbable stillness.

Later, the trio sat in a row, legs scissoring like a living Newton’s cradle, momentum rippling down the line. Another sequence had them leaning back, spine to spine, a bendy domino chain. When Cristian, the tallest and least flexible by circus standards, couldn’t find the angle, they simply switched places, adapting and supporting, making space for one another’s limits.

Then came the collision. Simon launched himself full force into Cristian’s arms. It looked aggressive but wasn’t; it was an explosion of energy seeking containment. Cristian caught him with quiet steadiness, and the gesture became a metaphor for community, for how we hold each other’s wildness and create soft landings.

As their bodies found unison, something otherworldly emerged. Their limbs intertwined until they resembled a multi-limbed creature, part Geek Love freak, part Malik Ibheis dreamscape, grotesque yet tender, absurd yet beautiful. It was a choreography of difference refusing categorisation.

Each performer spoke a different language - parkour, ballet, breakdance, clowning, mime - but over time those dialects merged. Mimicry became empathy. By the end, there was no longer an odd one out. The friction and laughter had given way to flow. What began as three distinct bodies became one evolving rhythm. The Odd Ones turned out not to be about strangeness, but connection.

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Creation and Conversation

In the Q&A, the company spoke with Artistic Director Ade Berry about how The Odd Ones came to life. It began as a development of Simon’s graduation solo, sparked when he mimicked a fellow performer’s clowning moves and then developed from there the thought of how “oddness” exists in contrast with others, hence the desire to expand from solo to collective. The dramaturgy sketched out as an arc that and detail developed as through the dynamic between the performers as they responded to the kind of open-ended questions that fuel creative process: What happens if I push here? If I mirror
you? If I try that again? Slowly, a pattern began to breathe.

The piece evolved over eight weeks between September and May, shaped by three “outside eyes.” One explored teamwork and trust, another, coming from a street theatre background, focused on emotion and how it’s carried through movement, while the third refined choreography and light. The use of lighting praised by audience members in the Q&A.

Stasy, clearly an introvert, admitted she was more comfortable moving than talking, yet she spoke with the same quiet eloquence she brings to her body. She described how they built sequences that showcased each performer’s strengths while transforming their weaknesses into points of connection. Cristian spoke of trust, of how exaggerating real interactions onstage revealed truth through play. Ade picked up on that thought, noting that adulting consists in (re)connect to that the inner child.

Simon agreed. “The choreography might not change,” he said, “but we do.” Each night they inhabit the same structure yet find new selves within it. That evolution, he added, came in part from asking their parents about childhood quirks and folding those memories back into their characters. 

This morning, reading Philippa Perry’s latest on Substack, I found her reflection on annata, the Buddhist idea of “no fixed self”, echoes that same philosophy.

“The self isn’t a solid, unchanging thing you can pin down once and for all. Instead, you are a flow of sensations, thoughts, feelings, and memories that come together in this moment. You don’t have to uncover one perfect, authentic self and defend it forever. You can allow yourself to change and to keep discovering yourself.”

That is precisely what The Odd Ones celebrates: belonging without erasing difference, and identity not as a fixed point but as something found in motion.

Afterwards we all decamped to the pub. It was a joy to meet Simon, Cri and Stasy, exhausted yet energised. It was great as well to meet Charlie Holland in person, former juggler and one-time programme director at Circus Space, now circus historian, writer, and reviewer of London shows for Kate Kavanagh’s The Circus Diaries. He is also the biographer of The Marvellous Craggs, soon to be published.

Together we raised our glasses, kippis, to the odd ones everywhere.

A Teacher’s Eye

With both parent and teacher hat on, I recognised the personalities on stage instantly. Stasy’s gentle introspection, Simon’s impulsive curiosity, Cristian’s shy clown.. I see that spectrum every day: daydreamers adrift in thought, ADHD whirlwinds unable to sit still because the world moves too slowly, anxious thinkers threading their way through the noise, my classroom in motion.

Circus understands that world. It gives permission to be fully human, to fidget, to fail, to connect.

Simon mentioned that in Sweden, the state shares half the cost with schools to bring performances like this to students. How I wish that were possible here. The Odd Ones would speak to my students, not just those with identified needs, but every teenager caught between Who am I? and Where do I belong?

The next morning, still glowing from the night before, I brought trailer and discussion of The Odd Ones into my Year 10 Spanish lesson. I wrote them a short dialogue for translation inspired by the evening that dovetailed neatly into their current topic; we laughed and talked about what it means to take risks and be seen.

With our World Languages Day coming up, celebrating over a hundred heritages, I’ll remind them of this piece, how Italian, Swedish-Finnish, Estonian, and Dutch performers can move together seamlessly, switching between languages of body and speech. My own Swedish and Italian students in year 7 were glowing that morning too when I showed them the clip, proud to see their cultures, as well as natures, reflected. They stayed behind at break for an encore! 

Coda:

I came to Jackson’s Lane for the play, but also because I knew Ade is leaving after eighteen years as Artistic Director, and that is a fact he mentioned in the Q&A. Ade has been instrumental in forging international circus links, travelling the world and building bridges, especially with the Finnish Institute. Those connections have shaped my own life: from seeing Ilona Jäntti dancing in the woods, to learning “kippis!” from Sakari Männistö and marvelling at the whole Gandini juggling; to Onni Toivonen bringing the house down in the first Shhh!  cabaret ( see post: click here - thanks to Hamish Tjeong for the introduction) that I curated for Jacksons Lane two years running; to the warmth of acro-duo Sasu Peistola & Jenni Lethinen and the sublime Hanna Moisala, from shibari to tightwire. And of course, the Moomins, I will get to Jacksons Lane for that Christmas show! Through it all runs a thread of oddness, maybe the very thing that drew me, Little My. While really I was too caught up in its flow with Ade and Lucy, pictured below, to feel maudlin at the time, there was a certain poignancy. A wondering. Will that connection remain? Watch this space...

Chapter 225: Sand by Kook Ensemble

 

I have been turning over memories of Sand by Kook Ensemble, the creation of Sean Kempton and Michaela O’Connor, ever since I saw it with my daughter back in June at Jacksons Lane. Devon, where the show is set, has always been a mythic county for me. My parents lived there by the sea when they were first married, after they met in the Navy. As the youngest of six, born almost two decades after my eldest sibling, I grew up hearing Devon stories and always felt a kind of yearning to know the parents of those days too.

I finally got to Devon back in 2019, the summer we returned from sailing. I was staying with friends in the National Park and nipped over to Barnstaple with the kids to see Sean and Michaela’s A Simple Story. A family piece with their daughter Chloe at its heart, carrying the teasing subtitle you’d expect from a couple of clowns: Two Idiots Raising a Genius, which delighted my own kids too. It was lovely to meet Sean’s parents afterwards, and I remember him talking about Devon beaches near home with such affection, but ran out of time to make my way to the coast. So back in June this year at Jacksons Lane, when Sand opened with gulls, breaker posts and sandbanks, I really was transported.

The power of memory is central to Sand, only ironically I can’t remember where I’ve put the notebook where I jotted down all my impressions that night on the tube journey home. Now, months on, I find myself travelling by train again, notebook in hand (on the cover of which reads "Creative Ramblings of a Restless Mind"!) reconstructing the evening, this time on my way to see my mum. At ninety-four she still has a prodigious reach into the past yet is increasingly both frustrated by and resigned to what she calls her “glitches” of short-term memory. We watched my father fade gently just past one hundred, ebbing and flowing like the tide.

The show begins at breakfast. A clock ticks. Dylan juggles with a boyish persistence, trying to coax a smile from Heather, who sits staring blankly at her newspaper. The effort is comic at first, his tricks bumbling and bright, but something hovers just beyond reach. The clock keeps watch over them, its steady hands a reminder that time itself is part of the story and later those hands will be shifted back and forward, as if memory could be rewound or hurried on.

From there, the story unspools across two timelines. The young lovers meet by chance in a supermarket, a tin of beans passed between them like fate disguised in groceries. What follows is a rush of play, flirtation and trust and mirroring of past and future selves: a grace of bodies tumbling in turn in acrobatic rolls down a dune (my favourite part), juggling that becomes courtship, a hand caught mid-fall that steadies into intimacy. At one point they build a precarious human pyramid, the kind of trick that depends utterly on balance and trust, before collapsing back into laughter. A clowning streak runs through their encounters, never undermining the tenderness but grounding it.

Between the older couple there is both tenderness and the shadow of dissonance. A breakfast ritual slips into confusion when incongruous objects are placed into the bowl. The older Heather steadies the older Dylan as though her whole frame has become scaffold and anchor. A chair becomes a barrier between them, a piece of furniture suddenly charged with all the frustration of not being able to connect. At another point the younger couple take shelter under an umbrella as the older Dylan rains down sand from above. The phrase "brain like a sieve" springs to mind, and it occurs to me here that the umbrella is a sieve is upturned and lined with memories as a barrier, but while memory gives some respite and shelter, ultimately it cannot stop the downpour. 

And then, in a moment of startling delicacy, a single feather is set adrift. Audience members in the front rows lean forward and puff it back into the air. What might have been a standard clown gag with a balloon became something else: a reminder that memory is sustained not by weight but by breath, by the lightness of being recalled and retold. Without that, it will simply drift away.

The performances are finely tuned. Myles MacDonald’s older Dylan clowns with a fumbling sweetness that makes the moments of forgetfulness hit harder. Dilly Taylor’s older Heather holds her ground with a resigned compassion, her body taut with both love and weariness. Álvaro Grande’s young Dylan brims with physical energy, throwing himself into acrobatics with a kind of reckless joy, while Ebony Gumbs’s young Heather moves with lyric grace, her aerial sequences suspending her between flight and rootedness. Together they create a dialogue across time, a sense of selves that are continuous and fractured all at once.

At one point, the younger and older pairs shadow one another so closely it feels as though memory itself has conjured them, doubling across generations. It made me think not only of my parents but of my son too. Just this weekend a cousin over supper remarked not only on how much my son resembles his father, but also how the way he and his girlfriend were interacting reminded her of us. That doubling of likeness, gestures, and intimacies felt like an echo of what unfolded on stage, where love and memory ripple forward even as they return.

The sand itself is both material and metaphor, and the most striking image comes near the end, when the older Dylan juggles balls that crumble in his hands, grains scattering in concentric circles as he whirls them round. It crystallises the whole piece in one gesture: beauty dissolving even as you try to hold it, “like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel.” That line, from the song The Windmills of Your Mind, came back to me on another journey to Mum’s this summer, when a cover by Jacqui Dankworth (daughter of Cleo Laine and Jonny Dankworth) played on the radio in the home stretch. Her version, with a flamenco-style improvisation that broke the song apart mid-way through, remade it into something both yearning and unsettled. The lyrics turn on a single image. That was Sand... lingering in the way love and memory ripple forward, keeping us connected as the seasons turn, and reminding us that, like a feather on a breath, what we share keeps us uplifted.

Footage of show and audience feedback:  click here
Photography: Roy Riley www.kookensemble.com

Chapter 224: On Cloud Swings in Life and Sturgeon Moons

Under the Sturgeon Moon

“Lucy, if I gave you the sun and the moon, you’d ask for the stars as well,” Mum used to say.

This weekend, under the Sturgeon full moon, her words have been looping in my head like an artist on a cloud swing, because sometimes I really do ask for it all.

This morning, I waved off an old school friend flying back to teach in China. She brought a copy of Orbital by Samantha Harvey and a box of Krispy Kreme “Saturn rings” for the family. We ate them talking, as ever, about life, love, and the universe. She recalled a moment of connection in China when she realised the same sun shining there was shining here in the UK.

I know that feeling. Three years ago to the day, I stood in moonlight on a beach in southern Spain after hearing from my sister that our father had died. Xavier and our youngest came with me to the shore. We looked out across the water to Tangiers, the same moon over us as over him, the same moon that had watched over him when he stood on that beach seventy years earlier, newly engaged.

In a recent homily, or maybe a podcast, my mind slips, came this question: When have you stepped into the unknown and it was a disaster?

The answer, if you’ve ever trusted the net, the water, the loving force beneath it all, is never. From the first time I stepped off the trapeze platform at National Circus, or published my first blog post, to setting sail from La Rochelle and somehow ending up in Sydney Harbour two years later, the pattern’s the same: fear, superseded by trust, that carries you through challenge and leads ultimately to joy, or at the very least the quiet satisfaction of survival.

Friday night’s adventure was a Full Moon swim at Shepperton Lake. Carolyn and I drove there in my “teenage Mini,” as old as my children and still full of magic. She had grown up just ten minutes away, so we crawled through rush hour revisiting her childhood haunts until the lake appeared, luminous under a setting sun.

No moon yet, but the water shimmered like glass. We slipped in and swam towards the blazing light, familiar yet unheimlich, uncanny. I could picture Dad there, ever the water-lover, saying, “This is the life,” heading towards the ultimate source of all.

The last ones out, we emerged giddy with laughter and sheer joy. Half a dozen of us, part of the “Tooting Tits,” an open-water sisterhood of sirens, shared lentil and caviar-flavoured crisps in true sturgeon spirit.

The moon finally appeared later, as I walked halfway down our street, bright, whole, and watching. I thought: You’re the same moon from Tarifa, from every thus. Like Tweedy in Giffords Circus: Moon Songs, I felt the clownish comfort of continuity.

Sunday brought an unexpected hangover from entertaining friends. I missed morning Mass, curling up instead with The Narrow Road to the Deep North, a story of love, loss, and survival. It reminded me of a friend’s father, a gentle man who had survived a Japanese POW camp. I wonder if that gentleness came from having looked into the void and stepped back.

In the book, the protagonist copies to his lost love: You burn me, you burn me. It recalled the jisei, the Japanese death poems that distil life’s impermanence into beauty. I understand that yearning to have it all, the sun, the moon, the stars. But our family motto reminds me: I shine, not burn.

It’s a delicate balancing act.

Yesterday morning, before my friend arrived, I finished We Are Still Here by Lamorna Ash, luminous writing, poetry in prose. She explores her bisexual Gen Z identity, faith, and performance. A young Quaker challenges her: is she commodifying her journey?

I felt the echo. Years ago, I questioned my right to write about circus, my makeshift religion when I’d felt distant from Faith with a capital F. Circus was my devotion, my discipline, my daring. It still is, part of my ongoing pilgrimage.

We made it to evening Mass, lighting a candle for Dad in the Lady Chapel. I thought of Stella Maris, Our Lady, Star of the Sea, and of Yemayá, patron saint aboard La Cigale, our boat, her envoys the dolphins that guided us at sea.

Ritual is its own trapeze act. In morning Mass, a hymn can send me swinging back to childhood, Mum and Dad beside me. Sometimes the sensation is so vivid I have to look up to the golden dove in the cupola and blink back tears.

Dad never had Alzheimer’s, though he lost short-term memory. That meant I could tell him the same circus or sailing stories again and again, honing the rhythm until he’d beam, “Did you really? Well, I never!” The best captive audience.

That last summer, I even brought my harp to play for him, still harping on in every sense.

Now, after a year’s enforced sabbatical for back surgery, I’m preparing to return to teaching, the job I love, the job that once broke me. But a lesser-known family motto I recently discovered reminds me: Broken, I rise, Fracta surgo.

Circus performers learn that lesson early, just look up #circushurts.

The night before the full moon, I dreamed of a tunnel, a pitch-black slide that opened onto a game with red and green bowling balls. The words in my head were, Just roll with it, baby. Only later did I learn that the Sturgeon Moon is also called the Green Corn or Red Moon. Perhaps the dream was echoing that, or maybe it was the buoys at Shepperton Lake, the red and green markers guiding our way through dark water. that were surfacing again in memory.

The arrival of the moon is said to mark  abundance and gratitude, a time to give thanks for what already is and release a few wishes to the deep.

So I’m giving thanks, imagining my yearnings already realised, and letting my inner Barnum rise again.

And you, reader, what do you wonder under this same moon?

Perhaps your question drifts into the night like a jisei, catching in silver light before dissolving into dark.

This is the life, on a boat called Serendipity, with a “dark and stormy”🍸  on the side. Cheers!

Chapter 222: The Juggling Saint

 

Normally, the only thing I celebrate on 31st January each year is my sister’s birthday. But this year is a little different. A few weeks ago, I found myself in a school hall, listening to a headteacher introduce some professional training to staff. He began by showing us a picture of a juggler, a tightrope walker, and a magician’s hat and asked what they had in common.

Me! I thought. Obviously!  But nobody there knew me as "Lucy Loves Circus". Circus in general? Too obvious… what’s the trap?!  While I paused to consider, a hand shot up.

"Don Bosco!" came the confident (and correct) answer.

Wait — what?! I was both surprised and curious.

I had heard of Don Bosco before—an Italian priest famous for his work with disadvantaged and at-risk young people. "It is not enough for a child to be loved; they must know they are loved," is one of his key quotes. I was fortunate to experience that knowledge first-hand, both at home and at the two convent schools that educated me.

The first convent, though located in Sussex, was home to 26 Southern Irish Sisters of Mercy, and if you’ve ever watched Derry Girls—though set north of the border—you’ll get the gist in terms of sharp humour, no-nonsense wisdom, and plenty of stories about the lives of saints and miraculous happenings. They certainly had my measure. I can still hear our very own Sister Michael, declaring, "Lucy Young, get up off that wet grass this minute, or it'll be another little holiday you'll be wanting...!"

The second convent, run by IBVM sisters (now the Congregation of Jesus, CJ), had a different character—more progressive in style and approach. In place of the traditional habit and wimple, the sisters wore home clothes, with a simple cross quietly marking their vocation. Being introduced there to the writings of Anthony De Mello bringing together Eastern and Western Christian spirituality—prayer through yoga, breathwork, and meditation—made a lasting impression, as did the strong emphasis on thoughtful reflection and questioning. One of the sisters even taught me to gate vault on long country walks in the hills—my first experience of legs flying over a bar, long before trapeze.

Both schools had one thing in common—aside from the fact they were also staffed by lay people of both sexes—the nuns set the ethos. They were fiercely strong, opinionated women who had no qualms about speaking their minds, were fabulous raconteurs (raconteuses?!), and were devoted to the principle that faith seeks reason, to quote St. Anselm.

But back to today’s saint: Turin-born St. John Bosco (“Don” being the title for Italian priests), known as the juggling saint. A century before my own education, he pioneered teaching methods that were innovative for his time—combining reason, religion, and kindness, prioritizing prevention over punishment. As a boy, he had been fascinated by local carnivals and fairs, teaching himself to juggle, perform magic tricks, and cross a tightwire—skills he later used in the classroom to inspire his students and ignite their imaginations.

He founded the Salesians of Don Bosco, a religious order dedicated to education and vocational training for young people, particularly the poor, inspired in turn by St. Francis de Sales—the 16th-century saint renowned for his gentleness. And, fittingly, the patron saint of writers, journalists… and, I imagine, bloggers.

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Playing around with ChatGPT the other evening, I tried generating an image to share with the Salesian school community I had met, celebrating their patron saint’s circus spirit on this his feast day. But the AI kept inserting macabre details—memento mori imagery, particularly skulls—despite my prompts to remove them.

ChatGPT’s algorithms had a point. A saint’s feast day commemorates the day they died rather than the day they were born. As I’ve just discovered—rather belatedly—their death is seen as their dies natalis ("birthday into heaven"), marking their entry into eternal life with God.

For me, the AI’s eerie insistence on memento mori wasn’t entirely out of place. Classical philosophers embraced it as a reminder that we all die—not to instill despair, but to sharpen our focus on what truly matters. Seneca used it to avoid procrastination. For Marcus Aurelius, it gave life purpose. Epictetus taught that by keeping death in mind, we free ourselves from unnecessary distractions.

However, wary of how this might land with pupils, I kept trying to edit out the skulls —getting increasingly frustrated with each prompt revision, culminating (sixth or seventh attempt) with an exasperated: “NO, NO, I SAID REMOVE THE BLOODY SKULLS!!! …please!” It still didn’t register. Maybe I was too polite. Or overdid the exclamations!

In the end, I took matters into my own hands—quite literally—transferring the image to PowerPoint and using some copy and paste to cover the unwanted details with flowers. While Don Bosco might have approved of my sleight of hand, it was probably not very Stoic.

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My stubborn battle against macabre imagery reminded me of another meditation on impermanence. Recently, I listened to The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh, the Bhuddist monk who was a Nobel Prize nominee (nominated by Martin Luther King) and Global Peace Prize Winner. He describes a practice among young monks in training: meditating on their own mortality—visualizing their bodies decomposing, flesh returning to the earth, until nothing remains but dust. Morbid as it sounds, such reflections lead not to fear, but to a deeper embrace of life. Carpe diem.

On that note, Don Bosco also urged: “Do good while you still have time.” That phrase has been on my mind lately, as I approach a milestone birthday and feel an increasing urgency to get my words out—especially as my back struggles to keep up with my energy levels, and I find myself on standby for surgery, a stark reminder of time’s passage.

So, in writing this, what began with a professional development anecdote has taken me on a diversion— one with all the fun of the fair! Teaching, in many ways, is its own kind of circus act. We juggle responsibilities—lesson planning, pastoral care, endless administrative tasks. We walk a tightrope—balancing discipline with encouragement, structure with spontaneity.

Doing a litte more exploring this week, I discovered the Circo Social Saltimbanqui in Córdoba, Argentina—a Salesian social circus that embodies Don Bosco's legacy by using circus arts to engage and uplift young people. This initiative not only preserves the spirit of Don Bosco's innovative educational methods but also resonates deeply with my own personal Trinity: All things Spanish-speaking, the circus arts and my own speculative pilgrimage of faith.

Reflecting on all this, I realize that the best educators are those who not only see the wonder in the world but also find creative ways to communicate and share it. Don Bosco's transformation of a childhood fascination into a life-changing philosophy serves as a powerful reminder of the impact that passion, when combined with purpose, can have on the lives of young people worldwide. 

Click here: Circo Social Saltambanqui

Chapter 221: Magnificent Zippos Encore!

It was another quiet May morning strolling down Althorpe Road towards Wandsworth Common. On a breeze floated a few petals from the cherry blossom, scented with a touch of jasmine. But what really put a spring in my step was the sight at the end of the street of a red and white candy-striped awning of the prettiest tent in the South. MAGNIFICENT Zippos Circus was back!

This is a special year for Zippos. They have just been awarded the Big Top Label, the Michelin star of the circus world and the only British circus to earn it. Not only that, this year marks the 50th anniversary in entertainment of Martin Burton, aka Zippo the Clown. I will never forget a chance conversation about him with a visiting emeritus Oxford professor, over from the US to teach English at Wadham College for the semester. When circus cropped up in conversation, as it tends to with me, he recounted how his tutor in his Oxford days had been Burton's father-in-law, who said to him, "Some people say their son-in-law is a clown... mine really is!"

Funny that last year the show was called Nomads as this year we, in the audience, were a pretty well-travelled bunch: we went as a family with my husband's Flemish cousins, newly arrived in London after years living in Hong Kong, friends of theirs over from Belgium, my husband’s nieces over from Switzerland, and aerialist friend Isabella over from East London, who I met through doing aerial at National Circus and who has made both my own tightwire boots and aerial gaiters (check out magical world at www.isabellamars.com. A few days later I went back for an encore with my friend Sam, whose husband Jon taught me fire-juggling, and whose gift of a circus girl pendant was my talisman sailing round the world, and beyond. A week later, I went back for the hat trick. This time with a colleague from my teacher-training days in Camberwell, another Lucy. Lucy is the most creative DT and art teacher, and we had met originally when I first stopped outside her classroom to admire a display of circus-related pieces, from handbags to posters, that her pupils had made. We've been on a number of circus-related adventures since, from Circolombia in Coventry to Revel Puck in Hackney Marshes, but this was the first time Lucy had come to my neck of the woods, and it was such a joy to have an excuse to catch up and welcome her here. While waiting for Lucy at the entrance, fashionably late, I chatted to the roustabouts, who were all from Kenya, as is Lucy originally. No sooner did she whirl in than they were all chatting away in a wave of Swahili, that swept us up and along to ringside seats. It really did feel like the whole world was coming together.

The acts delivered thrills and delight. Paulo dos Santos, the Brazilian clown par excellence, balanced physical comedy with jaw-dropping acrobatics, flipping between humor and daring feats with effortless charm. We cheered on Ukrainian clown La Loka, bringing mayhem and mischief, who danced through her routines with infectious energy, ran circles through her hoops and performed a fab Cabaret turn. There ain't nothing like a dame! Jackie Louise took to the air with breathtaking grace, suspended high above the audience as if floating on air. Alex Michael, meanwhile, toyed with the audience's nerves leaping between trapezes, and suspended in suspense on the Sky Walk — no strings attached! 

The energy soared with the motorbike globe riders, whose octane-fueled rush felt like a heart-pounding finale, but the show was far from over. The Magnificent Mongolian Warriors leaped and tumbled on the teeterboard, their precision and strength defying gravity itself. Then came the Timbuktu tumblers, whose sheer joy rippled through the crowd as they built human towers and limboed under poles and flipped on Chinese poles, as well as skipping into rhythm like poetry in motion. . Hungarian Anna Usakova captivated us on the tightwire, tangoing across with natural ease and then in ballet shoes, crossing "en pointe", blending elegance and drama in equal measure.The Novotny family act blended humor with skill as Toni spun plates and his son Nicol charmed the audience with his diabolo mastery. Each act left us wide-eyed, suspended between disbelief and admiration. My daughter loved the fact that there were so many female performers taking centre stage, and the diversity of role models.

However, not all were similarly delighted by the arrival of the Big Top. It had been raining recently and, while Zippos received the green light from the Council to go ahead and park, the ground was still soggy as the HGVs and caravans arrived. My heart sank, wondering what else this would churn up, as I caught sight of a poe-faced man snapping his camera to document each tread in the ground. Some people prefer to look down at the mud rather than raise their eyes to the stars, I reflected.

I was not alone. Some passersby were delighted to see the circus again—"such a pretty tent!” However, its beauty was lost on others. It wasn't long before the council was bombarded with angry messages, and accusations against Zippos appeared on X (formerly Twitter) like "you've butchered our Common" or "it will take months, if not years to put right."

The damage to the grass really wasn't that bad. No worse than the annual funfair. A week later it had already bounced back, and soon families were back picnicking there, and team sports running around again.

Sadly, on this occasion, the Council did not see it like that, and in a knee-jerk reaction heaped on the circus restorative measures that can only be described as cripplingly draconian:

1. Charging a substantial fine to cover the costs of repairing the grass, when surely that is what the original fee is meant to cover.

2. Further punishing Zippos financially by curtailing their stay, forcing them to cancel opening night and the performances on the last day.

3. Banning Zippos from ever appearing in any Wandsworth green space again.

I understand that the Council is keen to protect and preserve community spaces, yet this heavy-handed approach felt unnecessarily punitive— not to mention a bit rich coming in the year of the proclamation of Wandsworth as “London Borough of Culture 2025."

So as this year comes to a close, while I am so grateful for the marvel and wonder the Zippos brought yet again to our Common, the refuge it affords to artists like La Loka and the Ukrainian dancing girls who flanked the acts, I am not a little heartbroken at this ban of exclusion by Wandsworth Council.

I hold on to a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, someone on the Council might see sense. And if not? Well, the magic of Zippos lives on. Right now, they’re dazzling crowds at Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park until 5 January, 2025. Roll up, roll up! Click here for more info: hydeparkwinterwonderland.com/things-to-do/zippos-christmas-circus/

Chapter 220: Life as Circus: Lessons from Art, Language, and Beyond

After running off to the circus for six years, then sailing around the world for two, retraining as a modern languages teacher when we got back seemed like the most logical progression. From balancing on tightwires to navigating ocean passages, the classroom offers its own challenges in communication, adaptability, and connection. Though there’s less trapeze involved now, the same principles of flexibility and storytelling still shape my work — just juggling more lesson plans and scaling fewer ropes!

But even before that, my lifelong passion for languages had already shaped how I see the world. It’s a love older than my fascination with circus, though both hold similar truths at their core: a sense of fluidity, adaptability, and the ability to cross boundaries. Much like circus performers move in liminal spaces — balancing on the edge of what is possible, and historically on the margins of society  - linguists operate between worlds, embracing other cultures, looking from the outside in, and translating the untranslatable.  Whether I’m in the classroom or balancing on a tightwire in my garden, I am constantly reminded that we are all part of the same performance: creating, learning, and moving between worlds. 

Learning languages has therefore always meant more than just mastering grammar or vocabulary for me. It’s about stepping into different perspectives, immersing yourself in new worlds, and cultivating a flexible mind that can switch between cultures as easily as performers leap between apparatus. This idea of linguistic agility was further sparked by a gift from a colleague recently: Through The Language Glass: Why The World Looks Different Through Other Languages by Guy Deutscher. The book delves into the fascinating ways that language shapes thought and how our worldviews are reflected in the words we use. It’s an exploration of the dance between language and culture, reminding me again of how the work of a linguist is, in its own way, an art form — much like circus, where we play with boundaries and invite others to see the world anew.

Recently, I took up Arabic on Duolingo, in part to offer me an alternative dopamine hit to Instagram when I need a break, but also for the love of it, and to move outside my comfort zone linguistically. I’m always banging on to my students about the rich heritage embedded in Spanish, a language deeply influenced by the cultural exchange during the convivencia of medieval Spain, a time of coexistence between Christian, Jewish, and Muslim communities*. The Arabic legacy can be found in words like alfombra (carpet), alcalde (mayor), or even the wishful "¡ojalá!" (may it be so! if God wills it!), which are reminders of this intertwined history, even  if the latter phrase in Spanish no longer carries any of the original religious connotations of "inshallah", it still expresses the same sense of hopeful longing. The more I learn, the more I realize how little I know, and how much there is to explore.

Speaking of exploration, I know it’s short notice, but if you can, check out Natalie Inside Out, tonight at Jacksons Lane. Natalie Reckert, a world-class hand-balancer, teams up with digital artist Mark Morreau to breach the fourth wall digitally by merging acrobatics with immersive video projections. The performance promises to be both playful and challenging of the boundaries, as well as exploring self-image in today’s image-driven world. By combining the raw physicality of circus with videography’s ability to manipulate and amplify, they uncover hidden details — like the subtle creases in her hand carrying a handstand or the thoughts running through Natalie’s mind as she executes a move, blending humour, poetry, and digital art to create a shared experience with the audience.

Coincidentally, today I came across a post on Instagram by Israeli-born artist and photographer Ben Hopper that echoed this idea of the interplay between camera film (if not digital) and performance. I have followed Hopper for years, after the installation of portraits of circus artists that was shown and the Roundhouse, he’s a great photographer with an ever curious mind…. and in his latest project Making Art with the Enemy, he collaborates with artists from countries that have severed diplomatic ties with Israel. Much like Reckert and Morreau’s exploration of performance and technology, Hopper’s work seeks to challenge and bridge divides. It’s a call for coexistence and reminds me of how art and performance can offer new ways to connect in an increasingly divided world.

One thing I’ve learned from both circus and language is that, to paraphrase an old Guinness advert, art reaches parts of us that nothing else can. I’ve felt this while watching Fauda, a Netflix series that follows an Israeli undercover security unit. The seamless transitions between Hebrew and Arabic drew me into the reality of a world full of tension and complexity, but also brought home how important it is to see multiple perspectives.

For this reason, when a colleague from the Languages Department at school invited me to the cinema to see the Palestinian film The Teacher, I jumped at the chance. The sheer humanity and courage of the story resonated with me, and through the presentation of individual experiences (based on real life events), the film offered insight into the lives of millions who live through conflict. It captured the power of education and human resilience, in a way that deeply connected with me as both a teacher and a person.

At the heart of this exploration is the idea of crossing boundaries — between art forms, languages, and human experiences. This idea is also embodied in the Blue Rider movement, founded by Kandinsky and other artists, which sought to transcend traditional artistic forms and create art that connected deeply with spiritual and emotional truths. The painting I’ve chosen to accompany this post, Kandinsky’s abstract depiction of a rainbow and dove, is part of an exhibition currently at the Tate Modern. I was lucky enough to visit it last week on an impromptu trip, thanks to a very dear friend. The exhibition and Kandinsky’s work exemplify the Blue Rider movement's belief in art as a universal language, speaking beyond words. The dove, a symbol of peace, and the rainbow, a bridge between worlds, resonate with the themes of flexibility and connection that run through this reflection on language, circus, and art.

Much like the artists of the Blue Rider, who believed that art could inspire greater understanding and unite people on a spiritual level, I see the work of artists like Natalie Reckert, Mark Morreau, Ben Hopper, and even language itself as a way to move between perspectives. Whether through circus, film, or conversation, these are all performances that invite us to look beyond the surface, much like Kandinsky's abstract works, and find deeper meaning in our shared humanity. May they transform how we connect and understand one another. 

¡Ojalá!

Links: Natlie Inside Out, Mark Morreau at www.morreaux.co.uk, for one night only, tonight, Friday, 11th October, at
 www.jacksonslane.org.uk/whats-on/all-performances/  therealbenhopper.com

Exhibition at the Tate Modern: Expressionists Kandinsky, Münter and The Blue Rider (until 20th October)

Postscript 14/10/24: Interestingly, it has just been discovered that Christopher Columbus’s DNA indicates he was of Jewish ancestry. Like many others, he likely hid his faith to avoid persecution as the era of convivencia came to an end with Ferdinand and Isabella’s 1492 decree forcing Jews and Muslims to convert or be expelled. The timing of this revelation, coinciding with Día de la Hispanidad (formerly Día de la Raza), adds another layer of irony, as Columbus is increasingly viewed as a symbol of the brutal legacy of colonialism. Once celebrated for his voyages, he is now often seen as a figure responsible for terrorizing indigenous populations. This complex legacy — a man crossing oceans and cultures while hiding his own identity — serves as a reminder that history, like language and art, requires us to constantly navigate between different perspectives to fully understand its impact.

Chapter 219: Zippos Nomads

 As if by magic a circus appeared...

Like the shopkeeper who would materialize each time in the fancy dress shop and conjure up a new adventure for Mr Benn, one of my favourite cartoons from childhood (and yes, there is an episode where he runs away to the circus and becomes a clown) there is a wondrous magic about a circus tent appearing in the everyday space of Wandsworth Common. 

A wee bit surreal too. On Sunday evening I had just arrived back in London from a very special family break in an oast house in Kent, sad to hop it (ba-boom!). I just wanted to crash after the train ride back but I had an Amazon deadline of that day to drop off a return at our local collection point,. As I trudged down Althorpe Road, ahead I saw a curious sight. A cluster of caravans on the Common. Well, spoiler alert, you already know it is Zippos, but at that moment I didn't. Was it the travellers back for Bank Holiday? They had swept in a few years back and lasted 24 hours before being moved on. As I got closer I saw trailers too. A film set maybe? Our Common is so blimming photogenic afterall (as you'll notice on my Instagram account). Then I saw some men in high vis jackets with drills pegging our a large circular space, and on the edge of the Common a poster - the circus was coming to town!

Timing is everything. I smiled and groaned at the serendipity of it all. Of course, Lucy Loves Circus. But as a secondary school teacher, the last week of the summer holiday is when things get serious for me. I have lessons to prepare, admin to sort, not to mention checking that my own three children are sorted - the school labels I bought at the start of the holiday are now nowhere to be seen. That sort of thing. And then there is the school running club... all inclusive of all year groups, the sixth formers signed those of us over 17 (!) for the official Big Half marathon, the day before school goes back, and the morning after a friend's milestone birthday. This then was a week for getting my head down and being sensible. Instead I found myself juggling all that with running off to the nearest tattoo parlour for my daughter to get her ears pierced, ahead of a trip with friends to see Zippos circus on opening night...

And yet, timing *is* everything. When overwhelmed by to do lists, doing something for the sheer love of it pushes away the fear of dropping all the balls. And I've learned a new trick this summer on a course. Work out which balls are plastic and which are glass, and just focus on keeping the latter in the air, the others can drop. Discernment takes a bit of practice...

When the tent was up, the first thing I noticed was the LED display above the ticket box office, showing clips from the show and delivering messages to reel in the punters. Hello Wandsworth! the first one read. Well, hello Zippos!

To celebrate the occasion, I donned my gold circus heels, one with a female trapeze artist and the other a male, and little circus tent motifs on the back. Mindful of the approaching half marathon though, I walked barefoot from home across the Common and just slipped them on before entering the tent. Looking ridiculous, trying to contort my feet into a position to show both them of and the circus ring with my daughter propping them up, got a laugh from the ushers even if the photo failed. Instagram has a lot to answer for! Bringing them was worth it though as we were also joined by Isabella, who I know from this circus journey, sharing a love of aerial. We met when she made my first pair of aerial gaiters, then tightwire boots (ahead of Harry Styles, thank you! see her website www.isabellamars.com) and the female artiste on my pair always reminds me of her. 

In a sense, the travellers were back in town. Zippos' show this year is called "Nomads", the souvenir guide opens with Tolkien’s quote "Not all those who wander are lost", and it is a celebration of diversity of nationalities and the tradition of entertainers throughout history who have travelled from town to town to amuse and entertain. That chimes with me, both as a teacher of modern foreign languages, as a sailor who spent two years living on a boat, sailing islands and oceans without a night on land, and not to mention being a wondering blogger… But Lucy, get on, with it, what was it like…?!

Well, there was a traditional circus ring, at the back, there was a curtain, behind which a black background studded with little lights glittered like the stars that were about to make an entrance... And...well, let me just spell it out:

Nerve-wrecking. I have to confess I swore a little, out of earshot of the kids (probably) at tense moments. Acts like Ludvik Novoltny from the Czech Republic layering cylinder after blank after ball after box and balancing atop on the rola rola (the name on the programme – why did I think it was called the rola bola?) in a precarious equilibristic act. Then, in a metal sphere, floodlit blue, with petrolhead fumes and drama that reminded me of Mad Max in Thunderdome, there was first one motorbike, then a second, then a third, with perfect timing in a ballet of speed and wheels courtesy of Globe riders from Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay, that was the showstopper of the first half.  That segued into the adrenaline kick start of another spherical ring of potential death, the wheel of steel. Alternatively known as the wheel of death (maybe a bit macabre for a family show), this involved Victor and Bismark from Colombia executing acrobatic stunts on two large rotating wheels at either end of a metal arm that rotates around a central axis, both inside, and, more dangerously, outside. I have seen the act before when the blindfold comes out. It still kills me, if not them… Then there were The Mighty Mongolian Warriors doing acrobalance and skipping acts. That sounds friendly enough until you factor in that at one point the rope was a performer, or that they skipped while doing a three high! Note: A "three-high" is a human pyramid with three tiers of people, with one person (the base) on the bottom, another (the middle) standing on the shoulders of the base, and a third person (the top or flyer) standing on the shoulders of the middle, an act that requires incredible strength, balance, and trust among the performers as did their flying and tumbling from one to the other of each others shoulders.

 Ostentatious. In the sense that circus is designed to impress or attract notice. That is the nature of the show, and traditional circus astonishes and captivates the audience with bright and spangled costumes, like those of Ukrainian dancers Sofia Dobrovolska and Diana Muminova, with which the magpies on the Common would have a field day. As they would with the costume of Khulan, from Mongolia, whose grace of movement and hula hoop artistry was mesmerising. It also refers to daring feats and theatrical performances. Take The Timbuktu Troupe, flipping brilliant Kenyan acrobats in leopard print costumes, diving through hoops and limboing under fire with an agility and tempo that lifts the soul. Or Toni Novotony with practiced dexterity cracking whips and whipping out flaming knives to throw at his partner, who is attached to a spinning wheel, the fire adding another layer of risk and visual impact. Part of me would also like to see the tables turn (rather than spin!) so that his partner could have her turn throwing the knives at the board… And finally, ostentatious in skill but the antithesis in terms of understated theatrics, was Moroccan-born Ibrahim, on vertical pole. A study in holding poses, and slowing movement right down at impossible angles, making the well-nigh impossible (as one who’s tried!) looking effortlessly easy.

M is for musical. So important at driving the circus narrative. Epic music signalling its time to hold your breath, but also underscoring the comedy. One of my favourite moments was seeing clown Whimmy Walker coming on with his trumpet playing the most beautiful soliloquoy. It was a familiar tune, something I couldn’t quite place, the same vibe as Miles Davis playing “My Funny Valentine”.Later I contacted Zippos to find out what it was. “The Story of Love” came the reply. Of course it would be. That’s the story of circus for me, and the clown at the heart of it. Which leads on to…

 

Amusing. That’s an understatement. But there’s no F for funny in NOMADS, and here I want to bring in the clowns. I’ve mentioned Whimmy’s musicality, but his is also a fool who is constantly playing with the audience, when he isn’t juggling an insane amount of tennis rackets, or luggage (back to the Nomads theme!). Or Paulo Dos Santos, his foil, both in stature and character, who torpedos aforementioned soulful trumpet soliloquy with riotous drum-banging, deftly executes both tumbling and the most beautiful aerial acrobatics that kicks of the show, and with his trademark Brazilian joie de vivre always gets the audience engaging and cheering.   

 

Daring. This I reserve for “our very own Jackie Louise”. London is so international “our very own” made me smile. But at the same time, the pride with which it was delivered was genuinely touching, and it is good to be able to cheer on the UK when deserved. Jackie Louise performed such graceful manoeuvres on the aerial loops… oh jeez, and the neck hang, it’s all coming back … then later stepped into the globe, bikes flying round her, without the hint of a flinch. I also enjoyed when she stood atop the globe, as though she owned the world. Brava!

 

Showstopper. The final act was Alexander Lichner, from Spain. Hang on, I thought, with my Spanish teacher hat on. What sort of Spanish name is that? Shouldn’t it be Alejandro at the very least? Then I reflected my kids have Dutch surnames, Swiss passports, live in London and English is their mother tongue. And its circus. Nomads. Who is really from where? It was not surprising to read that Lichner won Gold recently at the French Circus Festival of Massy. His entrance descent was a ridiculous feat of balance, then scaling the rope back up could have been an act in itself. The trapeze sequences were beautiful to watch, the toe hang must have been painful enough but the single heel hang high in the gods was almost too excruciating to watch, still, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Afterwards we took fun pictures of the children sticking their heads through circus-themed face in hole boards, and generally dragged our heels, the last to leave. The children were so animated and delighted, it was a joy to watch their reactions throughout the show and to share this experience with family, bringing them together with their friends and me with mine, well, I felt immensely privileged and grateful.

On the way home we admired the blue super moon in the sky. I hadn’t known it was a thing until Isabella explained it to me. It was beautiful. Like a universal blessing on the night. The only thing it didn’t have were three motorbikes whizzing around inside…

The thing is magic, whether in a sudden circus appearance or a shared family experience, comes unexpectedly. Whether juggling work, family, and personal passions or simply trying to make it through the day, circus is my talisman, a reminder to appreciate the moments of joy and wonder that life brings. Sometimes, the most magical moments are the ones we least expect. So if you have the chance to attend a circus, take it. Zippos has two more shows tomorrow (Monday 4^th September) on Wandsworth Common, before moving on. The experience is unforgettable, and the memories will stay with you long after the tent comes down.

See: https://zippos.co.uk/  and on Social Media (TikTok, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook) for updates.