On seeing a terrible street puppeteer in the Brighton Festival.

In the geographical centre of the festival, a less than competent puppeteer grinned, ever more ingratiatingly as one by one his little crowd melted away, each finding their own small but decisive disappointment. Oddly perhaps, people were less concerned with his flagrant lack of talent than with particular small incongruities that added up to an air of falseness. No one took any particular note of the random flailing of the puppet itself, which was a shame as under the brown varnish danced a particularly fine, vintage marionette. Their attention never made it past the young man on the other end of the strings where, not consciously perhaps, they sensed the bohemian affectation, a Brightonista veneer, more fartsy than artsy. His hair was a little too estate agent neat; his junk shop, loud check suit a shade too contrived; his beard fell more into the hipster camp than the artist. People can take a bad puppeteer, that might be funny, but when it's just a man with a puppet demanding attention from adults it's insulting. No one likes being deceived.

                                     AA