Everybody loved the puppeteer on Wigan Pier. It was a mixture of frivolity and trickery, and never the same story twice. The puppets were not limited to being behind a high shelf but moved freely about the impromptu stage, often several feet forward of the Verona backdrop.
Today, Mr. Punch had got hold of some matches and had set fire to the crocodile, who had left the stage entirely to be rescued by a small child with a can of fizzy pop. He returned to the stage one of his cloth legs, charred beyond redemption, between his wooden teeth.
Jasfoup sat to one side, chuckling. The contracts for the troupe of six gremlins, invisible to mortals even without their Punch and Judy costumes, had been worth every sausage.
© Rachel Green 2007