By Baker Street
He had one of those hats that the clowns used to wear at court, the kind with many tentacles on top, and bells fastened to the ends. He looked ridiculous with it on, just the way he was supposed to.
Tonight he was playing the part of the jester in the farce “The Joke's On Me”. It was being performed down at the old town hall by the local drama company, which he was a member of. He was good at his part, and never missed bringing the house down with laughter upon saying his lines. He smiled.
Then he walked over to the tall dressing-mirror in the middle of the dingy little apartment room, and rehearsed a few lines and did a few steps. He stopped for a short pause, and looked at himself in the mirror. He gave himself a smile, and a wink. The bells jangled almost musically on top of his head as he moved about.
A ting-a-ling. A joke. A smile. His few lines. His small routine. The imaginary audience roars with laughter and applause, the clown gives them a small, tidy bow. What a success he was. The star of the show. He smiled again as he glanced at himself in the mirror, and his body twirled roundabout in the small room with a smooth motion.
He was the jester, and tonight he would make them all happy again; he would make them laugh. The light-bulb glowed dimly in the room. The bells jingled ting-a-ling, a joke, a smile, a bow.