Elegy/Apology

Dad used to love telling the story of the time he took my brother and I to see Marcel Marceau. I’ve always been a bit mystified by Marcel’s choice to tour Australia in the 70s, and by Dad’s decision to take two toddlers to see him, but I guess French mime was seen as incredibly sophisticated children’s entertainment back there and then.
The story goes that we were each bought a box of Jaffas (just in case Marcel failed to excite us, it was thoughtful to provide a crunchy sugar/chocolate rush as well).

All the Australians reading this will know exactly where it’s going.
After a silent rollercoaster ride of gesture and expression, walking against the wind and feeling along invisible walls, Marcel was working up to his final image of exquisite pathos. The hushed audience edged forward in their seats and held their breath as time seemed to slow... and then… and then… a shattering candy cascade was unleashed as hundreds of Jaffas bounced and rolled deafeningly down the aisle.
Dad maintained that Marcel never truly recovered, and would wake up in cold sweats at the memory of that fateful Sydney show.
I’m sorry Monsieur Marceau. I don’t really remember your show, but as far as the Jaffa incident is concerned, I’m sure it was my brother’s fault.
I hope now you’ve found quiet. And peace.