This column digs deeper into my archives than ever before.
When Jack was two, we took him to the Bungendore Show.
If I had to nominate the day he started thinking of me as a clown, that was probably it.
I made the mistake of introducing him to one of my favourite attractions in sideshow alley: the game where you roll ping-pong balls into a clown’s open mouth.
For months afterwards Jack wanted to practise at home.
“Go like this, Daddy,” he’d say, opening his mouth as wide as possible and slowly turning his head from side to side.
He was convinced that, with enough practice, I’d eventually win him a prize.
Bungendore is only about half an hour from Canberra, and Katherine and I thought a country show would be the perfect introduction to animal displays, home produce and the delights of sideshow alley.
Sideshow alley won easily.
As a kid, wasn’t it magical?
The colours. The lights. The fairy floss. The dagwood dogs. The showbags. And, of course, the terrifying rides that looked far more exciting from the ground than they did once you’d climbed aboard.
We started gently.
Jack had his first solo ride on a tiny car carousel. Until then, either Katherine or I had always ridden beside him on merry-go-rounds or miniature trains.
This time he was on his own.
I’m still not sure who looked more nervous at the start of the ride — Jack or his parents.
Fortunately, by the time it stopped, we were all smiling.
“What next?” I asked.
“I want to go on that,” he said, pointing enthusiastically to a machine that appeared designed to shake small children into another postcode.
“Daddy come too?”
There comes a moment in every child’s life when they discover their father isn’t quite the fearless superhero they’d imagined.
Jack’s moment arrived remarkably early.
I’m not saying I’m a coward.
But I draw the line at rides that spin, twist, gyrate or otherwise attempt to detach my internal organs.
Thomas the Tank Engine ride is adventurous enough for me.
“How about the clowns instead?” I suggested.
Diplomacy triumphed.
Jack rolled five or six balls into the clown’s mouth, won a little red plastic car and became completely addicted.
For the next couple of years, no visit to a country show was complete without a stop at the clowns.
And if there wasn’t a clown game handy…
I’d find myself sitting on the lounge with my mouth wide open while Jack tried to improve his aim.
It did wonders for his rolling.
Not so much for my digestion.
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