The Grand Ballroom of the Hotel InterContinental was a sea of sagging satin and smeared greasepaint. This was the Tri-Annual International Clown Convention, but the gloomy atmosphere felt like a high-stakes probate hearing.

The audience was mourning the death of the circus, plus sky-high insurance premiums because of lawsuits from people traumatized by clowns. Hardly anybody hired clowns for birthday parties anymore.

Giggles the Great sat in the back row. His oversized shoes, usually a vibrant cherry red, were scuffed and dusty, pointing inward like two defeated tugboats. Beside him, Puddles — a French mime whose invisible box had clearly become a metaphor for his clinical depression — stared vacantly at a wilted carnation.

“I just don’t feel the ‘honk’ anymore,” Giggles whispered, his voice cracking.

Amid the sea of ruffled collars and shattered dreams sat Bartholomew “Binky” Snodgrass. He........

© Peterborough Examiner