Well, our vintage-archival adventures haven’t come to an end yet: having bought the picture with malevolent cats at That Other Shop (as the opposite to our very loved “Bookworms”), we couldn’t but agree to continue our treasure hunt there. The result is another book with a somewhat cheesy name, “English Night Life,” with one of those pesky Hogarth-like illustrations on the cover (more details are coming) and... Well. A clown.
As a more or less reasonable person, I must admit that I’m not a big fan of clowns: not that I’ve got any sort of Coulrphobia (which stands for exactly that, i.e. fear of clowns), but their creepy attitude and a forced smile on a pale disfigured face has always given me chills. Not to mention an oldie but a goodie It, or surrealist Captain Spaulding from Rob Zombie’s gore masterpiece “House of 1000 Corpses,” or ridiculous Killer Klowns from Outer Space, you name it.
But then I spotted this little treasure on display in the shop, and it gives me both shivers and joy. This little one is holding his own—apparently, dead—mini-clown, and a pony behind makes you hear a hurdy-gurdy sound in your head. Isn’t it a marvel? I bet it surely is: the grumpy owner, Anthony, was delighted with my choice. “That came from the Côte d’Azur,” he said. “It’s a tiny little thing.” Then he clacked the clown, and it opened: it was a snuff box.
“Au revoir,” Antony said cheerfully, and I picked up my little merry horror.
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