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

"Lucy, if I gave you the sun and the moon, you’d ask for the stars as well," Mum would say to Little My, as Dad called me. She might as well have been channelling Barnum’s wife, Charity, in The Colours of My Life: “Your reds are much too bold, I’ll take my greys instead…”

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 do ask for it all.

I’ve just waved off an old school friend this morning, heading back to teach in China. She came bearing a copy of Samantha Harvey’s Orbital and a dozen Krispy Kreme “Saturn rings” for the family. We ate them while talking, as ever, about life, love, and the universe.

She recalled a moment of connection in China when she’d been struck by the thought that the same sun shining over there with her was shining here in the UK.

I know the feeling. Three years ago to the day, on the shore in southern Spain, I stood in moonlight, taking it all in, after hearing from my sister that my father had died. Xavier, our youngest, and I came with me to the beach and we stood in the shallows, reflecting, looking out across the water to Tangiers.

And I thought: this same moon has been watching over him and my family in Petersfield this evening. I imagined our father on that same beach seventy years earlier, in the 1950s, on the trip where he proposed to my mother. And yesterday, the sister who rang me with the news three years ago shared, on the Sisters WhatsApp, her own moon-over-water photo from where she’s currently on holiday. Funny old world, as Dad would also say.

---

In last night’s homily at church, or perhaps it was a recent podcast, my mind is slipping, the question was posed: When have you stepped into the unknown, not known where you were going… 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 platform for the petit volant trapeze at National Circus, or published a circus blog post, to setting sail from La Rochelle for two years into the unknown and somehow ending up in Sydney Harbour on New Year’s Eve, the pattern’s been the same: fears, challenges, and ultimately the most incredible adventure to celebrate.

---

Friday night’s adventure was a Full Moon swim at Shepperton Lake. Carolyn and I drove there in my “teenage Mini,” so called because it’s as old as my teenagers and, like the best circus props, still works its magic.

We crawled through Friday rush hour, revisiting Carolyn’s childhood haunts as she had grown up ten minutes from Shepperton, as the boat rows, and rewinding memories until the lake appeared: a luminous ring under a setting sun.

No moon yet, but the water rippled to glassy.

We slipped among the satin sheets and swam towards the blazing light. It was both familiar and utterly unheimlich, uncanny. I could picture Dad there, ever one to embrace water, saying “This is the life” and then heading towards the ultimate source of all.

---

The last ones out at 8.01pm, we emerged from the lake giddy with laughter and sheer joy. There were half a dozen of us there, part of a wider group of Tooting Tits and open water swimmers, an inclusive life-embracing sisterhood of sirens.

I’d brought lentil crisps which balanced out the “caviar crisps” Bronnie had brought, that we’d gamely tried in sturgeon spirit. 

No sign of the blimming moon on the drive back, even with the roof pulled back. Finally, I found it walking halfway down our street at the witching hour, and there it was, bright and whole.

I looked up and thought: You’re that same moon from Petersfield, from Tarifa, from years ago every thus. Like the clown in this circus of life, mooning around (remember Tweedy in Giffords Circus show Moon Songs?!) thanks for the continuity.

---

Sunday brought an unexpected hangover from entertaining friends the night before. I missed morning Mass, curling up instead with The Narrow Road to the Deep North, a story of love, loss, and survival that triggered a memory from school days — of a friend’s father who, like the protagonist, had been a prisoner of war in a Japanese camp and had written a book about his survival, albeit after being taken out three times in mock execution.

I remember only his height, his glasses, and the gentleness in his manner and wonder if that kindness was shaped, at least in part, by having looked into the void and stepped back.

In the series, the protagonist copies out over and over to a lost love: You burn me, you burn me.  It called to mind the jisei, the death poems of Bashō and other Japanese poets, distilling life’s impermanence into a moment of beauty. I can relate to that same all-consuming yearning to have it all, for the sun, the moon, the stars…But our family clan motto is I shine, not burn.

It’s a delicate balancing act, really.

---

Yesterday morning, before my friend arrived, I finished We Are Still Here by Lamorna Ash while basking in the

Yesterday morning, before my friend arrived, I finished We Are Still Here by Lamorna Ash while basking in the garden. Her writing is stunning, student of the verse of Gerard Manley Hopkins, her writing is extraordinary, liquid poetry in prose, like Harvey’s.

She explores where her identity as bisexual Gen Z sits, visiting and interviewing a number of Christian communities, and as a writer, the performative aspect of faith. At one point, a young Quaker adult challenges her writing as a commodification of her journey.

I felt the echo. Years ago, I questioned my own right to write about circus, which, after all, was my religion at a time when I felt particularly distanced from my Faith with a capital letter. Circus became my life-giving all,  teaching me to be brave with every trick in training, every post shared publicly for over a decade.

That spirit, the risk, the discipline, the devotion, the compulsion, is still part of my ongoing pilgrimage.

---

We made it eventually to evening Mass last night, lighting a candle for Dad in the Lady Chapel. I think of Stella Maris, Our Lady, Star of the Sea. Yemayá in Cuban Santería, our patron saint onboard La Cigale, whose envoys were ever the dolphins on passage.

Ritual is its own trapeze act. There is no singing in the evening service, but in the morning Mass a hymn very often can be a cloud swing back to childhood when Mum and Dad were next to me, the age I am now. I can reach out to them, right there. Sometimes the sensation is so immediate, so vivid, that I have to look up to the ceiling, where a golden dove sits in the cupola, and blink back the tears.

Dad never had Alzheimer’s, though he lost his short-term memory; and that meant I could tell him the same circus or sailing stories again and again, honing the timing until they landed just right. “Did you really? Well I never!” The best captive audience ever. .

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

---

Now, after an enforced year’s sabbatical for back surgery in April, I’m preparing for my return to teaching in the school classroom. The job I love broke me in the end, but a lesser-known family motto I discovered last week (in a book on the Scottish clans a friend from home dropped round to Mum's) reminds me: Broken, I rise, Fracta, surgo.

I’ve learned a lot over the past year, and my vulnerabilities make me stronger. Circus performers learn that lesson early in their career, you need only check out the hashtag #circushurts.

---

As if to bring that home, last night, in a dream with a surreal Hunger Games edge, I was invited to push myself into a pitch-black slide tunnel. The only way forward was to take a deep breath and drop into the enveloping darkness, relishing the stomach flips, heart in mouth, yet remembering to keep breathing, 4-7-8.

At the bottom? Stop. Go. A game of picking out a red moon and a green moon from among the sea of white balls and bowling each one successfully through hoops. The lyrics popped into my head: “Just roll with it, baby…” And this Sturgeon Moon made manifest in miniature. became another reminder to go with the flow.

---

The Sturgeon Moon, which can also be called the Green Corn Moon or the Red Moon, is said to be a time for abundance and mindset: a moment to be grateful for what’s already here, and perhaps to release from the depths a few wishes to set afloat.

We’re still in the grace period, and I find myself leaning towards giving thanks for what I already have, and imagining my yearnings as already realised, releasing my inner Barnum to the surface once again. And I’m curious about you, reader: what do you wonder, under the pull and ebb of this same moon?

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

This is the life....on a boat called Serendipity, and a "dark and stormy" on the side.  Cheers! 

Chapter 223: Harping on about Circus and Happy St Patrick's Day!

Circus is a jealous bitch.

Early in my circus obsession, Irish harpist Ursula Burns — in Tumble Circus' show "Damn the Circus!"  — offered this blunt truth on the seduction and curse of circus. It struck a chord and landed with the subtlety of a slapstick pie in the face. Thinking back to it now, I have also come across empresario Henry Ringling’s observation that this bitch is "a wench, a ravening hag who sucks your vitality as a vampire drinks blood... wrecking homes, ruining bodies, and destroying the happiness of loved ones. And yet, I love her as I love nothing else on earth." A bit extreme? Maybe. But also accurate.

To understand why this resonated, I have to rewind to a brief encounter back in 2012 that inadvertently hurtled me into the arms of the circus. It was a couple of months after having my third child. Stretched beyond words, I agreed to hire a French au pair to help over the long summer holidays. I thought I was hiring a gallic Marie Poppins; instead, I ended up with a cross between Carla Bruni and Single White Female—but that’s another story. Finally, my husband got the picture and whisked me away for a date night. Going off to see The Hunger Games may not strike you as an obvious choice of romantic movies, but after a summer of pure survival mode, I needed to watch someone strong, someone fierce, winning at life — already, perhaps, a part of me was searching for that inner circus strongwoman.

As we approached Leicester Square, a huge crowd had gathered for some premiere at another cinema, and somehow, I found myself swept into the throng and next to Colin Farrell—making small talk, taking a blurred selfie of the pair of us, laughing, my turn of phrase relaxed into his Dublin brogue. "Will you look at that, Colin? It’s all blurred! I guess I’m just nervous. You see, I don’t get out much…" Dressed up to the nines in a favorite Victoria’s Secret dress paired with killer Louboutins, I get that he found that a little hard to believe. Then three little words from my husband brought me back. "Lucy. Come. Now." But that longing for more stomach flips continued as I spent the evening watching Jennifer Lawrence take tumbles and risk all as Katniss Everdeen. And then, like a lightning bolt, it struck me: I would learn to fly on a trapeze.

I spent the next five years charting where that quest led, swept up in the thrill of it all—until the circus, with its endless flips and flights, began seeping into every corner of our lives. The writing as much as the practice became an all-consuming passion, and marriage started to feel like a juggling act with too many balls in the air.

And so it was, before we lost our footing completely, my husband and I with our three children, cast off, setting sail for a life untethered—"throwing off the bowlines, leaving safe harbor behind," and chasing our wildest dream. For two years, we circus-navigated the globe on La Cigale, clocking up over 25,000 nautical miles in the process. And that, again, is another story. Like one possessed, I have legion…

Now, three weeks away from a simple yet life-changing back operation, after two years of managing chronic pain, I am asking myself the question again: What dare I dream? Clearing out my filing cabinet to carve out space and order my thoughts this morning, I came across my Irish passport and an Éire-ribbon with a golden harp on it. I pinned it on, while wrapping round my neck an emerald green scarf, a Bratog Bríde (blessed by St Brigid) for good measure. I went downstairs, and for the first time in six months, picked up my harp again. My fingers clunked up and down the scales, but gradually it feels like I am getting back in tune with life.

“Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another, with a community, a work; a future.” —David Whyte

Recently, I spent three hours attending an online seminar by the Irish poet David Whyte (See davidwhyte.com). His words on experiences of the "unordinary", the way he engaged with the sense of awe of the everyday in Jules Breton's painting of "The Song of the Lark", the gift of his own daughter's voice and his recitation of poems and observations impressed, stirring something familiar — the same call I felt when I first stepped into the circus, the same pull of community, of art, of shared experience. Circus isn’t just about performing; it’s about being fully present, about pushing through fear, about belonging to something bigger than yourself. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe the touch of the Blarney Stone my Dublin-born Dad once kissed gets passed down from father to daughter. Or maybe those story-telling Southern Irish nuns who educated me for thirteen years have something to answer for. Either way, I long to fly again, and this time, I’ll do it through my words.

St. Patrick’s Day is the day to wonder that, one to celebrate the bold and the brave, the dreamers and the doers. What better time to raise a glass to those who fly high, who tumble and fall and get back up again? To the aerialists whose hands are calloused from rope burns, to the acrobats whose bodies bear the bruises of dedication, and the clowns who place their vulnerability centre stage. 

For the Irish in the circus, past and present, and for all who love the jealous bitch anyway—Sláinte!

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.

---

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.