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circus joke, or if the open cage doors, and the putative freedom that they represented, were for real.

Eventually they seemed to collectively conclude that they were faced with the real thing and that they damned well had to ensure that they made the best of it while it lasted, so, like a busload of hookers let loose in a mining camp on payday, they burst out from the cages.

At first they had no choice but to bunch together in the alleyway between the two rows of cages, but after much jostling and shoving they emerged into the open, scattering in all directions.

First out were the punchin’ llamas. These cousins of the camel, native to these high mountain plateaus, had been half crazed with frustration ever since the circus had encamped, so near and yet so far from their unattainable home territory. Called punchin’ llamas for their habit - part of their mating dance - of rising on their hind feet and clobbering each other with the front paws, they paused for merely a moment before bounding off towards the foothills. The last anyone heard of them was the sound of hooves cracking together as a couple of testosteronic males went for each other in anticipation of the eager young ewes that would, surely, be waiting to relieve their bottled up energies.

(In an interesting development, agents of the Comching government a few years later abducted the whole herd of punchin’ llamas. They have not been seen since. The Comching authorities, of course, have always most vociferously denied all accusations concerning any kidnapping.)

Next came the tumbling jangaroos. Imported from the warmer antipodes, they were clearly not used to the cool mountain climate. The normally powerful leaps and

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