Clowns.

It had to be a clown.

My goddaughter Clare – who, at age seven, is wiser than most people many times her age – has reminded me on numerous occasions that:

“Clowns Eat Children.”

and yet, there I was – trapped in a television studio with a clown. And while I have not been classified as a child for several years, I believe that clowns are rather omnivorous and feast on many things, including maritime historians.

I had to sit next to it. I had to actually talk to it. And then – to make matters worse – my segment had to follow it.

It slouched its way to the interview couch.

It juggled.

It…clowned. And I was defenseless against it. Had I known…had I had but an inkling I could have combatted it with my fire-eating skills. But no.

History vs. Clown. Film at 11.

I emailed my colleagues and told them that this wasn’t in my job description…that I would need years of therapy and that it would come out of their department budget…but still, the fact remains that today I had to share a television studio with a clown.

I really really really don’t like clowns.

Now as clowns go – this one was not the worst sort. I mean, it’s not like it was a birthday party clown. But still…

Did I mention that this one had a severed hand in its back pocket?

OK OK – it was a plastic severed hand. But still….there’s just something wrong with that.

The things I have to do for my job….I swear….