Francisco said that I must see him perform while his circus was in town.

The last time I’d been to a circus there were galloping horses, lumbering elephants and ferocious lions. A bit like Mr Galliano’s Circus, written sixty years before, but there was still a connection.

This ‘new circus’ was different, a theatrical performance with circus skills, dance, music, and storytelling. And there were lots of clowns which made it difficult to pick him out. But he’d reserved a seat on the front row and knew exactly where I was sitting. I recognised his skinny frame when he bounced over in full clown regalia.

The boy with the big dick and a smudge of eczema on his left buttock stood before me and placed his hand where his heart should have been. Then he put something into the palm of my hand.

It was a ceramic egg with a clown’s face painted on it. I stared at it, unsure as to whether I should give it back or not, and then I saw that it was Francesco’s clown face on the egg.

When I looked up he’d gone, lost amidst the chaos, still fooling around, and not taking life seriously.