Being on the Fringe.

Talking of being the ugliest person in the play, how about being the least important?

I think I was 5 or 6 when I took part in my only school Nativity play. I wanted a leading role, of course. If I couldn’t be Joseph, I would have settled for being a Wise Man. If I couldn’t be a Wise Man, I would have made do with being a Shepherd. (I seem to recall we didn’t have any angels; it was a rough neighbourhood.) But do you know what they cast me as?

A rabbit.

There were three of us, all come to adore Baby J. Needless to say, we had no lines to deliver. And to explain to the audience of adoring parents what these three kids were doing squatting in the corner of the stage, they gave us each a pair of long ears. One pair was grey, one brown, and one black. I got the brown pair, and I was allowed to keep them.

That much, at least, was a treat. Coming from a poor family, treats were in extremely short supply, so a pair of cardboard ears painted brown gave me something to feel possessive towards for weeks. And so I did.

Nevertheless, a pair of cardboard ears, treats though they may have been, hardly compensated for the feeling of being marginalised at such a tender age. I remember waving to my mother at the end of the performance, and I remember her smiling dutifully back. Or maybe I’m being unkind; maybe she was truly impressed with my still and silent performance as an adoring rabbit.

I kept the ears for a year or two, occasionally taking them out of the drawer to revel in the sense of a job well done. And life has been replete with small mercies ever since.