in his Clouseau-era. I want to get home knowing at any minute
I might karate chop Burt Kwouk as he comes flying round the corner
or trap his trouser-tie in the fridge door or flip up the fold-down bed
on his head — basically I want to triumph frequently by freakish
misadventure. And I want a beige mac and to take liberties with my
vowels and I want a range of disguises for every occasion (including
one involving lederhosen) and a lava lamp and always at least one
eccentric, vastly rich admirer who finds me fascinating. And I want
terrible timing that’s also somehow — sublime and I want to be the
badass buffoon who might snap the evil villain’s snooker cue but
doesn’t break a sweat. And I want to drive my boss round the bend
to the point he’s fully on the brink, tearing through shrink after shrink
until they have to cart him off to an asylum where he sits, flanked by
two white-coated gentlemen beside a pond, rocking, burbling my name.
