Some day I want to be Peter Sellers

in his Clouseau-era. I want to get home knowing at any minute

I might karate chop Burt Kwouk as he comes flying round the corner

or trap his trouser-tie in the fridge door or flip up the fold-down bed

on his head — basically I want to triumph frequently by freakish

misadventure. And I want a beige mac and to take liberties with my

vowels and I want a range of disguises for every occasion (including

one involving lederhosen) and a lava lamp and always at least one

eccentric, vastly rich admirer who finds me fascinating. And I want

terrible timing that’s also somehow — sublime and I want to be the

badass buffoon who might snap the evil villain’s snooker cue but

doesn’t break a sweat. And I want to drive my boss round the bend

to the point he’s fully on the brink, tearing through shrink after shrink

until they have to cart him off to an asylum where he sits, flanked by

two white-coated gentlemen beside a pond, rocking, burbling my name.