The Circus

The Circus

Pp. 348

21st C
The west country is drowning, nothing but rain, steely grey skies and blustering winds for the past two weeks.  People look glum.  The Circus is a moving mass of colourful umbrellas, half of them turning inside out in the wind, as hundreds of poor drenched tourists follow their guides round the circle of houses, then march up Brock Street to view a soggy Royal Crescent, never at its best seen in heavy rain and howling gales.

But the following incident cheered me up:  
A listener rang the Bristol BBC radio station to report he thought he had been so lucky when informed by a charity that he had won first prize in a raffle.  When the box arrived it contained  material for a make -it- yourself garden gnome. “The worst of it was,” the caller added wistfully, “All the rest of the  prizes were bottles of wine!”