An orange man in a box office. A little top.

An orange man in a box office. A little top. Refuge from the rain. A plastic seat on a circular ringside in front of a burger van and opposite a ten row terrace.

A fanfare, smoke, some light.

Three women skipping around the ring: a fluorescent blonde on legs like stilts, a white mini skirt following on an invisible brunette, her skin browned on the steppes of Hungary, a housewife, gurning and oozing from her skirt.

We see them again, the orange man as ring master, and illusionist. He sells ice cream in the interval.

The housewife swings on a trapeze, and in deference to artistes of old she clambers into a hanging position. We buy a burger from her.

A Russian balances some poles, not Poles, and drops them, and expertly rebalances them.

The blonde in ever-shortening skirts spins countless co-joined hula hoops until the momentum runs out, hides in the illusionist's boxes and emerges whole to clown with a clown while the Hungarians ready themselves for another anatomical and gymnastic display.

And then its over. No lights, no smoke, no orange man, no candy-floss, no refuge, just rain.