I don’t nose if you nose, but I’ve had enough.
Don’t you sometimes feel that despite your very best efforts to keep your nose clean, the world insists on poking its nose into absolutely everything? Whether you like it or not. You can be quietly minding your own business, making a cup of tea, perhaps even contemplating whether to put the washing on, and before you know it you’re being assaulted by another crisis, catastrophe, celebrity scandal or somebody telling you that you’re living your life entirely incorrectly.
I’m tired. Not just a little bit tired but the sort of tired that requires a lie down and possibly a jammy dodger.
I’m sick of the constant bad news, the weight of the world, the pressures of everyday life, the endless drama of celebrities and the absolute insanity of certain people who seem determined to keep us all permanently on the edge of our seats. And just when you’ve managed to digest one piece of dreadful news, along comes another. It’s like a never-ending conveyor belt of misery with the occasional advert for a funeral plan thrown in for good measure.
Once upon a time we had a much simpler arrangement. There was news, of course, but there was also the far more manageable business of wondering what’s Betty got up to now? A bit of village gossip, a raised eyebrow over the garden fence, and the occasional scandal involving somebody’s husband, somebody else’s casserole dish and a suspicious amount of lipstick. Now we have all that, multiplied by several million, beamed directly into our pockets, handbags, and bedrooms. We can’t even have a peaceful trip to the loo without being informed that the world is ending or that somebody has been cancelled.
And then there’s the advertising…
Apparently, we’re all doing life wrong. We need to get up at 5am, join the professional living club, have a cold shower, meditate, journal, go to the gym, eat 147 grams of protein before breakfast, smear ourselves with magnesium and sprinkle our cornflakes with collagen. God forbid we should simply get up, put the kettle on and have a bit of marmite on toast.
There are people out there who seem to have turned being alive into a full-time administrative position. I don’t know when we all became projects that needed constant improvement but I’d quite like to resign from the committee forthwith. No wonder there are so many stress heads wandering about. We’re being bombarded from every direction and I’m beginning to feel that the only sensible response is to switch the whole bloody thing off.
I’m going away soon which should be lovely. A change of scenery, a bit of breathing space, a chance to escape the usual routine. Except now there are bomb scares, gunshots, rampages and all manner of other alarming things popping up in the news. It’s that horrible little trickle of fear that starts to creep in and makes you question whether you should be going at all. I mean honestly, can’t a person just go away without having to consider whether the destination is going to feature on the evening news?
I’m beginning to think I need a different approach to life altogether.
I considered a move to Scandinavia. It’s dark, they seem to like it, and they have twinkly lights, candles and all sorts of cosy rituals to get them through the gloom. There’s something rather appealing about the idea of retreating into a little Nordic bubble, practising my Morgenhygge (which sounds wonderfully important and like I possibly made it up) and treating my mornings as sacred. No frantic scrolling, no world events, no motivational podcasts shouting at me to optimise my existence. Just quiet, a candle, a warm drink and the gentle business of being.
I’d quite suit it, I think. Picture me in my Fisherman’s jumper, draped across a very comfortable sofa, a fire crackling away, perhaps a small plate of something delicious within arm’s reach with reindeer wandering about in the distance. A sprinkling of snow wouldn’t go amiss. I’d gaze thoughtfully out of the window, looking terribly contemplative whilst doing absolutely nothing of any measurable value.
Lovely.
Of course, there’s a small problem. I don’t actually live in Scandinavia, and I’m not sure I’m quite ready to relocate my entire existence just to avoid the news. And I’d probably get bored.
So there’s another option.
I could start a clown army.
And I have to say, this idea has been bubbling away for some time. Years. It feels less like a sudden decision and more like something that was always destined to happen. After all, if the world insists on behaving like a circus perhaps it’s time we stopped being the audience and joined in.
You nose it’s coming…
Some people carry an umbrella in case of rain. I carry a yellow duck.
Some carry a spare phone charger in case of a low battery. I ignore my texts so it doesn’t matter.
Some people call a friend. I carry an emergency clown nose in case of conversation.
You’ve heard a lot about my emergency nose. It’s a perfectly ordinary red foam nose, the kind you’d find at a children’s party or the back of a drawer. Bought for me many years ago by a friend who realised the importance of my shenanigans. But in my hands it’s a precision instrument. When a situation becomes boring, awkward or just a bit too sensible, I reach into my pocket, pop it on, and sit there. I say nothing and I explain nothing. I just wait.
The looks are marvellous. Some people pretend they haven’t noticed, which takes real commitment. Some stare as though I’ve grown a second head, a small red one. Occasionally someone laughs, and that’s how I know they’re one of mine. I’m not saying the nose solves everything but it does get you out of a surprising number of things. I’ve come to believe there are two kinds of people in this world: those who see an adult female in a clown nose and edge towards the exit, and those who quietly wish they’d thought of it first. If you’re the second kind, hello. Welcome. You’re among friends.
But I’m beginning to think that one nose, however magnificent, simply isn’t enough. The situation calls for expansion. A little organisation. Some strategic silliness. Perhaps even a recruitment drive. There may be a manifesto. I wouldn’t rule anything out at this stage. So I’m currently working on the next phase of operations because if we’re going to navigate an increasingly bonkers world, we might as well do it with a bit of colour and a sense of humour. I think this has legs, possibly with big red shoes on the bottom.
A clown empire for the weird and the wonderful, the easily bored and the socially allergic. Every empire needs a uniform, so I’ve designed one.
Don’t make me get the clown nose out, a polite warning.
Currently deploying clown protocol, for when the warning has been ignored.
The clown nose comes out when the evening goes sideways, which needs no further explanation.
Social battery: low. Clown nose: ready., for anyone who has ever hidden in a bathroom.
Wear one to a meeting that could have been an email. Wear one to a family gathering where someone’s about to bring up politics. Wear one simply so that people know where you stand, which is slightly at the dark edge of normal.
They come on mugs, stickers, and tote bags too for those who prefer to clown quietly.
No pressure. The nose never pressures.
It simply waits.
This is just the beginning.
Honk honk.
1 week ago, rational, sane Americans could breathe deeply for the first time in 10 years. Change can come.