Getting to the church on time.
In which a small wild-boy clown is found clinging to the side of a Spanish hill.
There's a clown here who walks out of churches naked, smashes bottles, points them at tourists and demands money, the surrounding bars feed and juice him and watch him go. He's a bald intense sack of Australian dysfunction called Anthony Livingspace.
I thank the gods of my weird life that I was free to choose anywhere in Europe and on a whim chose Grenada and then within 5 days I'm shepherded to a bar in front of a sloped pitch to see the back of a bald head and be told by my guides that "He's Australian."
A bleary gaze tightened as he swivelled,he smiled hesitantly "Patrick?"
"No."
"John?"
"No."...."Martin."
"Martin!...(he's faking it, he's too drunk to process anything inside 10 minutes, but he's faking well.)
"Yes, the Martin who tried to amputate the shallow cul-de-sac that was your addiction to pathos 15 years ago. And the Martin you swore to eclipse! ("You know Martin, I'm going to be a lot more successful at your age than you are.")
The Martin in whom you confided, "I've been doing clown study and I found my inner child ..but then my inner rapist raped him, and was caught and is now doing 20 years in my inner prison."

One of a handful of people I'd enjoy falling to my death with.