can talk to them about. They live in a different world to ordinary people like me. That’s why I had raised the subject of the wooden cross earlier, rather than sit back in silence while he fiddled with papers.
‘And it’s not because I’m between religions at the moment?’
The bishop looked horrified at this. ‘Good heavens, no. I had no idea.’ He glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. ‘I thought you were currently a member of the Religious Society of Friends – a Quaker?’
‘No, I have trouble with worshiping in silence. A whole hour , for goodness sakes. I prefer words – litanies and stuff like that, though I’ve heard that African Quakers are pretty keen on singing and dancing.’
The bishop shuddered. ‘Are they? I wouldn’t know.’
‘Oh yes. It’s in their souls. You can’t stop them.’
When I was told I was coming here today, sent by my psycho-analyst, I was convinced it was about the clowns. You see, I’ve got to pretend I’m getting better, that I’m being cured. They all think I’m crazy, which I’m not: I’m still convinced clowns are disguised aliens invading earth. I mean, there seems to be more of them around every time you look. And what better disguise than all that make-up? And what better camouflage than baggy clothes and monster shoes if you’re not quite the same shape as a human? When you look at a clown you can see he’s misshapen: bulbous head, usually, and long stringy arms. I’ve already mentioned the feet, but there’s the general outline of them, which is sort of pear-shaped. That’s no human under all that: it has to be an extra-terrestrial, an alien. One that has great difficulty with facial expressions and proper laughter. One whose emotions (if they have any at all) are quite different from ours.
‘The world is split into two types of people,’ I revealed to the bishop. ‘Those who are terrified of clowns – and clowns.’
The bishop raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m in the first group,’ I informed him. ‘I’m a clown-phobic, or whatever the proper name for it is. I expect you’d guessed that. Come on, admit it. They frighten you too, don’t they?’
‘This-is-not-about-the-clowns!’
His voice had a horrible even sound to it.
‘OK, then what?’
‘James, listen to me. Are you listening to me? You’re not an unintelligent young man . . .’
‘Obsessions mostly attack fairly bright people,’ I said.
‘Exactly!’ He spread his chubby hands as if he wanted me to inspect his palms. ‘You are a bright person. That’s why you’ve been chosen. We’re mounting an expedition. The second one.’ He sighed. ‘Needless to say the first one failed, or we wouldn’t need to risk going again. James, we need you. We have to take a sacrificial anode on the trip, to leave the other members of the expedition free to study the environment and gather information.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, not with any trepidation you understand. I’m not short of courage. ‘It sounds exciting.’
‘You apparently know what a sacrificial anode is?’ he seemed surprised, even though we’d just agreed I was quite intelligent.’
‘Um, yes. They have them on boats and ships. In the case of ocean-going craft the sacrificial anode is a piece of chemically treated metal attached to the hull near the screw. It attracts all the corrosive elements in the sea water, leaving the propeller relatively untarnished. When the anode is thoroughly corroded it’s removed and thrown away and a new one put in its place. Much cheaper than throwing away propellers.’
The bishop looked pleased. ‘Well, you are clever, James. I didn’t know what a sacrificial anode was until it was explained to me.’
I didn’t say why doesn’t that surprise me .
‘OK,’ I replied, guardedly.
‘The way they explained it to me was by using an analogy with honey and bees.’
It was my turn to raise some eyebrows.
The bishop continued. ‘Well, let’s say the government
‘And it’s not because I’m between religions at the moment?’
The bishop looked horrified at this. ‘Good heavens, no. I had no idea.’ He glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. ‘I thought you were currently a member of the Religious Society of Friends – a Quaker?’
‘No, I have trouble with worshiping in silence. A whole hour , for goodness sakes. I prefer words – litanies and stuff like that, though I’ve heard that African Quakers are pretty keen on singing and dancing.’
The bishop shuddered. ‘Are they? I wouldn’t know.’
‘Oh yes. It’s in their souls. You can’t stop them.’
When I was told I was coming here today, sent by my psycho-analyst, I was convinced it was about the clowns. You see, I’ve got to pretend I’m getting better, that I’m being cured. They all think I’m crazy, which I’m not: I’m still convinced clowns are disguised aliens invading earth. I mean, there seems to be more of them around every time you look. And what better disguise than all that make-up? And what better camouflage than baggy clothes and monster shoes if you’re not quite the same shape as a human? When you look at a clown you can see he’s misshapen: bulbous head, usually, and long stringy arms. I’ve already mentioned the feet, but there’s the general outline of them, which is sort of pear-shaped. That’s no human under all that: it has to be an extra-terrestrial, an alien. One that has great difficulty with facial expressions and proper laughter. One whose emotions (if they have any at all) are quite different from ours.
‘The world is split into two types of people,’ I revealed to the bishop. ‘Those who are terrified of clowns – and clowns.’
The bishop raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m in the first group,’ I informed him. ‘I’m a clown-phobic, or whatever the proper name for it is. I expect you’d guessed that. Come on, admit it. They frighten you too, don’t they?’
‘This-is-not-about-the-clowns!’
His voice had a horrible even sound to it.
‘OK, then what?’
‘James, listen to me. Are you listening to me? You’re not an unintelligent young man . . .’
‘Obsessions mostly attack fairly bright people,’ I said.
‘Exactly!’ He spread his chubby hands as if he wanted me to inspect his palms. ‘You are a bright person. That’s why you’ve been chosen. We’re mounting an expedition. The second one.’ He sighed. ‘Needless to say the first one failed, or we wouldn’t need to risk going again. James, we need you. We have to take a sacrificial anode on the trip, to leave the other members of the expedition free to study the environment and gather information.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, not with any trepidation you understand. I’m not short of courage. ‘It sounds exciting.’
‘You apparently know what a sacrificial anode is?’ he seemed surprised, even though we’d just agreed I was quite intelligent.’
‘Um, yes. They have them on boats and ships. In the case of ocean-going craft the sacrificial anode is a piece of chemically treated metal attached to the hull near the screw. It attracts all the corrosive elements in the sea water, leaving the propeller relatively untarnished. When the anode is thoroughly corroded it’s removed and thrown away and a new one put in its place. Much cheaper than throwing away propellers.’
The bishop looked pleased. ‘Well, you are clever, James. I didn’t know what a sacrificial anode was until it was explained to me.’
I didn’t say why doesn’t that surprise me .
‘OK,’ I replied, guardedly.
‘The way they explained it to me was by using an analogy with honey and bees.’
It was my turn to raise some eyebrows.
The bishop continued. ‘Well, let’s say the government
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